If you had nine months
by SlightlyStrangeGirl
Summary: What would you do, if you had nine months to live? Where would you go? Who would you be with? On December the 21st, Molly Hooper was diagnosed with terminal cancer; she has nine months. Her plan was to do everything she'd never had the courage to do and be happy for the first time in years. But with Jim Moriarty's return and the drowning depression, life has other ideas. ON HOLD
1. Hospitals

**Heya! This now my THIRD attempt at writing fanfiction! I'm seriously lacking creation right now /:( Anyway, this fanfic will be a LOT more depressing than the other two I tried, and hopefully you will cry! (Ummm... not that I want you to cry or anything, but you know...) **

**DISCALIMER: **

**Me: I own Sherlock! Yaaaay!**

**Sherlock: Nope. She has an intellect resembling that of a hedgehog, and never has, and never will, own Sherlock. **

**Me: *Sniffles* …**

**Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.**

_Molly_

I hate hospitals. I think it's the anti-septic stench of clean-slyness, and sickness more than anything, but the washed out white walls don't help either. It's downright terrifying to walk through a labyrinth of shiny-ness, scrubbed within an inch of its life, and reflecting a cold aura around you. But, if I'm honest, this is one of the nicer hospitals I've been to.

There are colourful floral doodles clinging to the walls with masking-tape, all signed with kids handwriting in a cute scribble at the bottom right corner; a proud reminder of it's artist. There is a masterpiece too. Well, what is a masterpiece compared to the young scrawlings of flowers next to it. On the wall opposite me, hanging from the wall at an odd angle, is a black and white sketch of a rainy London day. It's tragically depressing yet in a strange way, uplifting when you notice the tiny laughing couple in the far right. They're so far away. Away from the bustle, umbrellas and scowling faces in their own colourful sunny world smiling, a childish ignorance of everyone else's misery, hopes, losses, aspirations, but then again, aren't we all?

I listen to the high pitched laughter from behind me, and the stampede of tiny feet. I wonder what I was like as a child. Quiet I'm told, but Mum never really paid any attention to me, so I have no idea.

Right now, I'm slouched in the shiny waiting room with about eleven other impatient parents, men, women, children, teens. I'm not waiting for an appointment. I've already sat through the 'talk'. I already know what's wrong. I'm here because I don't want to go home. I know, it's weird, but I'm enjoying watching completely oblivious strangers run about, buzzing like flies, not worrying about me because they don't know who I am. It's refreshing. If I go home, I'll cry. If I go home, I'll have to face reality, talk to people and take medication and watch my own life slowly melt out of my own weakening grasp. If I go home I'll have to tell them. I'm dying.

… **That was the hardest thing to write ever! I HATE the thought of Molly dying more than I hate my brother... Please review :) P.S. Sorry it's short /:)**


	2. A Phone Call

**Heya! So I was going to wait like another week to update, but your reviews and follows made me sooooo excited to carry on! Firstly, let me just say a BIG thanks to:**

**rosetomydoctor – I love writing this way too much...**

**FanFicGirl10- I REALLY hope she plays a bigger part in season 4, she's awesome!**

**And of course...**

**Twilight Mortal- Hello darlin'! How ya doin'!?**

**So yeah. I think that's everyone. So, without further ado: Chapter 2!**

**Oh yeah, and:**

**Disclaimer: So, the BBC said I could own Sherlock. Wow.**

**John: WHAT! They put a complete nutter like you in charge!?**

**Me: That was sarcasm.**

**John: *Looks awkward*...Oh... **

**I don't own Sherlock :(**

_John_

"OF CORSE HE DIDN'T KILL HIM! IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO SAY FOR CERTAIN WHETHER ANYONE KILLED HIM!" He grabs the small knife embedded in the shelf on the wall, and stabs down hard into the cardboard cluedo board. Right next to the other hole punched through it from the last time...

"For god's sakes Sherlock it's a bloody game." I snap at the irritating man in front of me. He chucks himself down on the small armchair, before jumping up into a crouching position with the end of his blue socks dangling off the edge. His hair is, as normal, a tangled, curly mess piled on top of his head sticking out at unnatural angles. A swirling mixture of blue and green flood his eyes, narrowed with annoyance over the simple, silly game. Protruding from his face, is a straight roman nose, which is slightly crumpled up like paper in dis-taste. Unsurprisingly, he has his bottom lip stuck out in a temper tantrum.

"How am I supposed to not shoot the wall, smoke, OR make Mrs Hudson cry when everything's so BORING?" Despite the sophisticated, low rumble of his voice, I can still detect the whine of a bored toddler on a car journey. He's shifted his position slightly so his fingers are stapled under his chin and his eyes are closed. His 'thinking' pose. Draped carelessly around his shoulders, is a thick, well-made, expensive gown of blue silk hiding the black T-shirt and long blue trousers underneath.

We're sat in 221b. Me in my cushioned chair, and him on his firm black chair opposite me. Between us is the dagger in the board game, and across the room on it's side, is a small wooden round table, which he violently 'discarded' much earlier on in the game. Dust clouds explode when you tread near the fireplace, in the kitchen lie two fresh intestines, and an appendix, the curtains are stiff to yank open, the T.V. has fingerprint marks smudged on it, and the whole place stinks of blood. He hasn't exactly kept the place 'nice'.

I shrug in response to his question. "No cases I guess."

"Oh no John. There are plenty." I frown, confused.

"Okay... Then why-" He gets up, roughly rips his laptop away from the desk it was situated on and cuts me off.

"Mr Holmes," He begins to read off the screen:

"I'd really love your help. I think my ex-wife is in trouble with her new husband. I don't like the look of him. I saw him with a gun one time because he said it was protection. I know it weren't Please please would you help. I dunno what to do, cause I still love her more than everything so if you help me I will pay you a lot. Thanks for reading, Zac."

"Well that doesn't sound THAT bad. I mean, it could be interesting if-"

"HE SPELT LOVE L-U-V JOHN!"

"Oh."

"He's also spelt please p-l-z and thanks t-h-x. He also couldn't spell 'because' apparently either." I'm not surprised. Sherlock gets useless emails every day. He once received one asking if he was free. He responded: 'Assuming that by 'free' you mean I have no girlfriend, then yes. However I do not applaud your choice of wording. I do not understand why you would wish to know if I was free, unless you know John, in which case you probably want him to write some cheesy nonsense about me becoming human. Also, you've used the semi-colon wrong. You cannot use a semi-colon after the word 'hey' and before the next clause because the two are not linked. This shows you are obviously below the average intelligence and like the rest of the population you are stupid. So, to answer your question, yes I am 'free'.' We hadn't heard from her again. It'd made an interessting blog post: ' The Human side of Sherlock.' I'd called it.

"Nothing on my blog either."

"Well, of course there's nothing on your blog. Only people thick enough to appreciate your endless ramblings about how 'great I am' read your blog." Once again, he's crouching in the chair.

"Oh yeah? And who reads your blog? People who happen to be interested in 243 types of tobacco ash? They must be geniuses." My voice is melting in sarcasm.

"Shut up John." I yawn and stretch my arms away from me.

"I should go back to Mary." I flex my muscles before dragging myself onto my feet.

"Oh yes. Go back and crow over an unborn child, drink tea, and look at sickly congrats cards. Don't let me spoil your dull, predictable life." I roll me eyes and cross the room to the heavy door.

"Oh, leaving so soon dear?" Mrs Hudson questions standing in the doorway in front of me. I wonder how long she's been standing there...

"It's been three hours you know?"

"It has?! Oh no... I'm meant to be at the bakery! See you later dears!" Like a mouse and cheese, she scuttles back down the stairs quickly.

"Bye." I call out to the infuriating man before shutting the door behind me. He ignores me. Deep in his 'mind palace'.

Taking the steps two at a time, I start to rush home to Mary. When I finally exit the building, I hail a taxi. Smiling, I tell the driver the directions, and slam the door next to me. I stare out at the busy people, colourful shops, and rowdy teenagers down the dark ally as we pass by. Time starts to flicker by unbearably slowly as I watch London from a small, dirty window, watching the completely oblivious people. I rest my chin on my palm, and try to let my mind drift. It doesn't work. All I can think of is Mary and our kid. It's strange. I've never even considered the possibility of a child, and now suddenly, we have one and I want her more than anything. I just sit for a few minutes until-

"Ring Ring...Ring Ring...Ring Rin-"

I click on the speaker.

"Hello?" The caller ID hasn't shown.

"John."

"Sorry, who is this?"

"It's um... Molly Hooper." Huh?

"Sorry, uh who... Oh no I know you're the pathologist at Barts! Hey, how are you?"

"I'm...I don't... Uh..." Her voice is really wobbly, and very, very distant.

"What's wrong?"

"I...I'm... I think I'm, no I know. Is Sherlock there?" She isn't making any sense.

"Um...no not right now sorry. Why? You okay?"

"John... I'm not okay. Not at all." Her voice breaks on the 'all' and I can hear faint sobbing from her end.

"Wait! What happened?"

"John, I'm dying." I drop the phone. Oh god, please no...

**Awwww... I'm being serious, I nearly cried writing this... I need a life. Pleeeeeease review :) I love to know your thoughts! (Not in a creepy way...) Also, if I haven't said so, this is set just after the end of season 3, and Moriarty has made no apparent moves after the whole 'Miss me' thing. Look out for Chapter 3! **


	3. Telling 'them'

**Heya! Firstly, let me just say: W-O-W. I have had SEVEN WHOLE REVEIWS so far! I'm sooooooo excited right now! I keep doing this freaky victory dance thing, and Mum keeps walking in on me doing it... I think I'm getting a therapist...**

**Anyway, a MASSIVE thakyou to:**

**Tessa Timmerman - Thankyou :) I hope you enjoy it as much as I am :D**

**FanFicGirl10 - I know, but I don't think they ever really saw each other enough to be friends in the show.**

**Candylandy1 - Mwa ha ha! I made someone cry :) … (I feel bad now...) Love your username :)**

**TwilightMortal – You're welcome :)**

**And lastly:**

**Disclaimer:**

**Me: This is depressing me...**

**Moriarty: Awwww that's a shame.**

**Me: I WANT TO OWN SHERLOCK! WAAAAH!**

**Moriarty: NO! *Laughs maniacally* **

**Me: I'm SO telling Mycroft on you!**

**Moriarty: *Gulps***

**I don't own Sherlock... *Sniffles***

_Molly_

I don't know why I called John. I don't know. I hardly know him. All I can think of right now is nothing. There's nothing. Nothing to help me, nothing to stop the pain and nothing that cares enough to try. My entire world has switched from the colourful, comfort of everyday routine into the washed out, faded, blank white ceiling above my head. Unnoticed, faded, old, tired and worn. I've gone from a no one, to a nothing in less than one day. I raise my arm and trace the cracks of my broken heart, dragging my fingers through the air, knees hugged to my chest wet with tears, and eyelids sore and heavy. After a minute I let my arm flop back next to me. I should get up. I should do something, feel something, anything. But there's nothing. I pinch myself to check I'm not dead already. I barely feel it, but it's there. I don't know much about terminal illnesses, but I've seen the movies, read the books and watched the plays. I'm meant to be a sobbing wreck. I'm meant to be curled up on the floor, my lungs heaving for oxygen as I scream into the shoulder of a friend, college, boyfriend, anyone. Instead, I'm staring numbly at the nothingness that is turning into me completely alone. Like every other Thursday evening, except this is different on so many levels...

_John_

"Oh my god... Oh no... Sherlock's going to..." Everything sways.

"You okay mate?" A gruff voice slurs from the front, and I watch him adjust his tiny mirror, to check on me. I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I'm paler than snow, my eyes are dark and I look about twenty years older. Like time has tripped, stumbling into the near future.

"Blimey! Mate, you wanna a doctor or somein'? You look real bad mate..." I take a very long breath.

"Uh..."

"Well you're um... here now, so you need help getting' out?" My hands are shaking, and moist as I bend to pick up my mobile, and hold onto the door handle for support.

"No. I'm...Okay." Molly isn't...

"Okay. Take it easy mate." It doesn't occur to me that I haven't paid him. I need to get to Sherlock. Now. Shakily, I grip the handle, gently push open the door, and swing myself out. Slamming the door behind me, I start to stumble up towards our house, tripping most of the way. It's less than five metres from the door. It feels like a hundred. Holding the door knob weakly, I stop. Molly knew, no 'knows' Mary doesn't she? I've started to put her in past tense. This doesn't make me feel any better. Taking another deep breath, I open the door.

_Mary_

I scoff at the boring soap opera on the faulty T.V. Ugh. We have 400 different channels, and not one is playing anything worth watching. We need sky. Tossing the remote aside, I stretch out, and rub my massive inflated stomach with one hand. This baby had better come soon. It'll be eating my internal organs next! Little monster...

"Mary...?" John's voice echoes through the hall. He doesn't sound right. Normally, his voice is cheerful, normally you can hear the smile in it when he's home. Now his voice is thick, barely distinguishable, and extremely tired.

"John? You okay?" I grumble slightly as I pull myself up to waddle to him. Turning right, I spot his hunched sillouhette in the hall. I flick the lights on. He looks terrible.

"Oh my god... What the hell happened? You okay?" When I reach him, I place my hands on either of his cheeks, and tug his head down to look at me.

"What happened?" I whisper. He hasn't spoken. His breathing is heavy, and he's shaking violently.

"Mary..." His voice is a scared, quiet murmur

"I think... I need to talk to you." I frown. Something was very wrong. John was hardly ever serious. He hadn't even been serious at the pregnancy scans. He'd kept giggling like a school girl rather than answering the nurses questions.

"Okay..? Um... Living room?" I don't wait for an answer. Instead, I squeeze one of his hands a little too desperately to comfort, and gently guide him to the main room. Still holding his cold hand, I steady him slightly as he collapses onto an armchair.

"What's happened?" I'm starting to sound terrified. This must be really bad if it's shaken him this much. Is Sherlock okay? Oh god... What if one of his experiments went wrong? What if he's in a coma? What is he's... No. Of course Sherlock's fine. Why wouldn't he be?

"It's... Molly..." I internally breathe a sigh of relief. Sherlock's fine. Molly's parents have died. They've been very sick for a long time now. Poor Molly. She must be so upset. But why would that shake John so much? But, what other explanation could there possib-

"She's... unwell." Wait. What? Oh no... My heart stops beating. 'She's' unwell?

"What do you mean 'unwell'?" I already know. I just can't believe what he's saying. It's impossible...

"She's... dying." And just like that my entire façade of a smiling world of children, fairytales and castles smashed into a million little pieces, and burn to the ground. Please no... Not Molly... No...

"W-what?" My eyes are stinging. Everything's blurry. I want to scream. Or throw up.

"I'm really sorry..." He's bent with his head hanging in his hands, shaking like an earthquake. Something cold and wet dribbles down my cheek. It's not true. It's not. This is all a really bad dream obviously. This wouldn't happen. Not now. Not ever. Nothing is that cruel. I nip my exposed knee. I'm not dreaming. Then it has to be a horrid prank. Maybe it's for one of Sherlock's cases. Of course, that must be it... Of course...

"John... P-please s-stop it..." He doesn't look up.

"J-john.. John, TELL ME IT'S NOT TRUE." I loose it. Red clouds my vision and my cheeks sting. I shake him roughly, and drag his face to mine. He's a good at lying... That must be it. I won't listen to the muted scared voice in the back of my mind.

"Please... PLEASE JOHN!"

"I'm... Sorry..." He stumbles. My chest is on fire. I want to curl up, like if I become smaller and smaller, it won't be true any more, but life isn't that merciful. The entire world is spinning a lot faster as he pulls me into a 'too-weak-to-be-comforting' hug. The tears seem to be on replay. I couldn't stop them if I tried. And I'm scared if I do, the fire will burn me to death. I bury my face into his collar and sob loudly. Time isn't relevant. I don't care how wet his shoulder must be by now, I don't care if it's midnight, hell, I wouldn't care if the world was ending, I don't CARE. All I know, is I sit there in his arms for an immeasurable amount of time. Before I at last stop the crying, and just hold him.

"What of?" I murmurer. He sniffles. I can feel damp on my shoulder.

"Don't know... I need to tell Sherlock."

"It's... just not fair..." I feel like a kid as I say this. We both sit there for what seems to be a very long time, before at last, I pass out.

_Sherlock_

I stand tall, looking out at busy London, the people buzzing like flies about the street lights, and the roaring voice of the cars. I hold my violin in my right hand, with the bow digging into the wooden floor beside me. No cases. Still. Frustrated and bored I sigh, before flopping down onto the sofa, and discarding the violin across the room. A sharp gust cuts through the slightly ajar window, and sweeps the sheet music of it's stand.. _The east wind is coming..._ I smirk as I remember the scary stories my older brother would tell to me.

Closing my eyes, I staple my fingers under my chin, and begin to wander through my endless mind palace...

"Bzzz, Bzzz...Bzzz, Bzzz... Bzz-" What now? I grumble before grabbing the annoying object and stabbing the answer button without checking who it is.

"Sh-Sherlock?" Is that... John? He sounds dreadful...

"What's happened? Are you al-right?"

"Um... I'm...er getting to the first, and yes... no?"

"What's happened?" I demand.

"It's Molly... I've got some bad news... You... might want to sit down..."

"Just tell me. Now." My fingers are tapping each other in worried anticipation. My back is ridged as I try to hold back the 'sentiment' in my voice and for the first time ever, Molly Hooper is the point of my concern.

"She's... dying... I'm so sorry.. she-" I don't hear anything after the second word. I simply drop my phone, get out of 221b and run. I don't know why. I don't care.

**Awwwwww... I nearly cried writing this one too... WAAAAAH! Poor Molly :( Chapter 4 should be up relatively soon Please review :D **

**(Can NEVER have enough reviews!) **


	4. Good Company

**Hello my dear readers :) So... yeah. This is chapter four, I hope you enjoy! But before we begin I must thank some more reviewers:**

**FanFicGirl10: Mwa ha ha :) That's the idea :) Glad you're finding it sad and thankyou for reviewing so often :)**

**kaz1370: Thankyou :) I will try to cheer it up a bit later, so don't worry :)**

**MarBre582: I'm sorry to hear that :( Hope you feel better soon, eat lots of ice-cream (if you like ice-cream) and don't read/watch depressing stuff until you feel happier :)**

**InMollysWildestDreams: YAY! Erm... I mean... Sorry? Well, I hope you're enjoying it :) (love the username)**

**EvilUnicorn11: Um... Not entirely certain what 'this' means... Hoping it's a positive thing...? Anyways, thanks for reviewing :D**

**Ugh... Here we go again:**

**Disclaimer:**

**Me: *Shuffles to Mycroft, pouting* Moriarty started it!**

**Mycroft: Do be quiet. Moriarty, what do you say...?**

**Moriarty: SHE DOESN'T OWN ME!**

**I hate this... I don't own Sherlock.**

**(Oh, and this Chapter contains the f-word. Just so ya know)**

_Mycroft_

"She's dying." A silence follows. A silence, that even for me is too uncomfortable. I sigh.

"You must have some idea where he is...?" It's now been approximately an hour and thirty-seven minutes since Sherlock went missing. As far as we know, he simply took off after hearing the tragic news from John. We haven't heard a word from him, and he appears to have left his mobile at Baker Street, so tracking the device would be useless. None of us have any clue where he went or why, but this is extremely out of character for him. He hardly ever shows any signs of 'sentiment'. Stressed, I rub my palm over my forehead, and grip the chair slightly harder with the other hand.

"I'll have some of my workers look around for him-"

"HOW CAN YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHERE HE IS!? YOUR HIS BLOODY BROTHER!" John bellows. He shifts his normal stiff straight posture, to lean on the edge of my desk and breath heavily. Eyes shut, he bends his head down so I can't read his face.

"Do you even bloody care? Or do you really believe we're all just goldfish. Is that what Molly is too? A goldfish? You know Sherlock could be up-"

"GET OUT." I yell. His jaw drops. Another horrible silence suffocates me. I blink. Shocked at my own outburst, I frown confused and concerned. I won't lie. I'm worried about Sherlock, but I never show emotion. Ever. It's a weakness I can't afford to acquire.

"Fine. You know what? Sod this. Sod you. Can't you just be kind or just for once, can't you at least act worried? Or is that too much to ask of a psychopath." He storms away to the door. I close my eyes. I don't even flinch when he slams the door, shaking the entire room as a small child would a gift. I won't understand emotion. I can't understand it.

_Mary_

I've been standing here for at least ten minutes. This is ridiculous. I shouldn't be scared, this is Molly. But no matter how hard I try, I can't do it. I can't bring myself to face this. I still don't believe it. If I go in there, the truth will become a reality and I don't want that. Who would? I want to wake up from this nightmare. Right now. My hand rises to the doorbell, but falls pathetically back beside me. This is so selfish. What's wrong with me? I should be with Molly, helping her through the

unfair amount of time she's been given. I take a long breath. I don't want this...

_Molly_

I scream. And scream. And scream, burying my face in the snotty pillow and letting salt water drip uselessly from my red face. It's not fair. I've never done a single fucking thing wrong in my whole fucking life, and now I'm going to die from some stupid microscopic sickness, so tiny I can't even see it to fight back. It's not even a battle as they all put it. I'm being executed by something completely invisible, and at the end of the day, this invincible illness, is just trying to stay alive like me. Except it's got an advantage. Who knows? Maybe we're all worthless bacteria living on the palm of someone's hand.

The tears won't stop. It's a hideous everlasting waterfall, pathetically drizzling off my chin. Ugly, painful and pointless. However, if you think about it, everything's pointless. Life's pointless, dying is pointless, and the universe is, as far as we know, pointless. We're just here.

I read somewhere the average amount of people diagnosed with cancer is 4/10. That might seem like a lot, but the odds were still in my favour. The amount for terminal cancer is even smaller. Yet it's still me. Why aren't the bad guys punished. I've never been religious, but if god is real, I really don't get why I have to die. There are like three billion people on this earth, and it chose me. I sob, my shoulders hunching, and my entire body propelling me forwards. No one's even come to see me. That's one of the most disappointing factors in this entire sorry affair. Not a single, living, kind human being has even called to see if I'm okay.. not that I want them to. I don't know what I'd say.

I'm still on my bed. My body is squashed almost uncomfortably into the smallest form I can manage, clutching onto a damp pillow for dear life on my side. "Ring..." The doorbell sounds. I hardly hear it. I'm drowning underwater trapped in my own labyrinth of misery. I lie completely motionless, apart from raged breathing, and the running tears. After a very long while, a bang echoes from my window. "Molly? Please let me in." Is that... Mary? I sob again.

"Molly? I know you're in there. I swear, if you don't let me in, I'm breaking this bloody window!" I laugh between sobs slightly. I don't doubt it. I shut my eyes. Take deep breaths. Push my face into a sad smile, dry my eyes, and stumble to the door like the weak drunk man. My feet hurt, yet at the same time, I can't feel them. It's like I'm dreaming. Fumbling blindly, my wet fingers slip against metal, and I stab the lock with the keys missing a few times, before at last it clicks and I nudge it open slightly. Standing on her tip-toes, peering in my bedroom window throwing death threats with tears streaming down her face is my best friend. I giggle. She turns, and unbelievably, she smiles. Running towards me, (well, more a hilarious waddle really) she chucks herself at me, throttling me with her arms, and sobbing, laughing and mumbling into my shoulder. My tears start to soak through her jumper, and then, guess what? Oh yes, on top of everything else, lovely London decided it was time for a shower.

A lot of books make out that tragic moments are a lot more tragic, romantic and a lot more dramatic when they're performed in the middle of a rainstorm. They can't have tried it. It's mostly just cold and wet and gross because you tend to get a mouthful of the other persons hair.

"Ugh! Oh thanks London! Thanks so BLOODY MUCH!" Mary suddenly yells, only half playfully. Her voice beaks on the last word.

"Lets go inside." I nod so she takes my arm and pulls me through the door. Now we're in the light, I can finally see the horrific state of my friend. Her short, blond hair has mud specks in it, her blue eyes have smudged dark rims around them, and she looks like twenty years older. I don't fail to notice the amount of dirt she seems to have collected on her clothes. I smile and sniffle before talking.

"What happened to you!? You fall in a ditch!?" She turns a deep red.

"Well... As it turns out, taxi drivers get annoyed when you tell them they're incompetent. So they kick you out." I stare at her. Then burst into fits of sobs and giggles.

"You idiot! You think he'll drive faster if you tell him that!?"

"Molly Hooper, shut up. I went through living hell just to get here, you'd better be thankful." Her tone sounds like she'll break down at any second, but a ghostly smile is flickering on her lips.

We walk through to my small living space, and collapse on the sofa. "You okay...?" This is why I didn't want visitors. What on earth am I supposed to say now?

'Oh you know. I'm dying. Other than that, I've never been better.' Crosses my mind, but I know for a fact, I'd never make it to the end of the sentence without breaking down. Instead I say the most miserable, most stupid and most untrue thing in my whole life:

"I'm okay." I don't dare look at her as I mutter. To avoid her hurt gaze, I'm suddenly intrigued by my bitten fingernails.

"Crap Molly Hooper." I don't fight the smile that gratefully smoulders my features; I welcome it. Letting my eyes crinkle slightly as I giggle again.

"What do you want me to say?" I turn towards her away from my raw, red nails.

"Hm... What do they say on T.V?" I think for a moment. I've seen a lot of tragedies in a lot of different films, but for some reason, I can't think of one that actually portrayed the feeling of uselessness exactly right. In fact, they got pretty much all of it wrong. I tell her anyway:

"Well, normally they say something stupid like: 'It's not fair. Why, oh why do I have to die? I had so many life ambitions and hopes. Now they're all dying with me.' or some nonsense along those lines." I grin at her weakly. She looks horrified. My accent wasn't THAT bad surely?

"Jesus! That's the first thing they say!? Dear god, please don't say something like that... I'll crack up laughing."

"I don't know how they pull it off in the movies." I add smiling. A lot more relaxed than I had been ten minutes ago.

We both sit there for a long time, talking, laughing, and crying. I've changed my mind. Having company is a lot better. Sure there are horrible moments when you feel like curling up in a hole and dying, but most of the time it seems to lift off some of the sadness from your chest and everything seems somehow lighter. Somehow, we move onto the topic of Harry Potter when-

"Buzz, Buzz... Buzz, Buzz..." Mary frowned as she picks up the phone, and then relaxes when she checked the I.D. Must be John.

"Hello?" She rolls her eyes at me dramatically, and mouths the words over-protective in my direction. I roll my eyes too, and prepare to get up to make coffee. Her features shift. Her eyes widen, her eyebrows turn up, and she looks scared. I stop, frowning at her.

"Umm... Okay... That's not like him... Okay... Love you." She hangs up.

"What's happened?" I demand

"Oh.. Erm... I mean it's probably nothing to worry about..." She trails off with a mixture of pleading and concern written in her face.

"What?"

"Sherlock's missing."

**dun, Dun, DUN! Where's heartbroken Sherlock run off to? And how will they find him? Hope you enjoyed this chapter, if so pleeeease keep reading, following, and all that stuff :D And don't forget to review! Also, it's now... THE SUMMER HOLS! YAAAAY! Which means, waits for new Chapters shouldn't be THAT long :D**


	5. Searching for Sherlock

**Hello! Welcome to Chapter 5 :) I know this update has been really fast, but as it's the holidays, I thought I'd just update like every other day or so, because I've got nothing better to do. Firstly, reviewers:**

**TwilightMortal: Thankyou :D**

**ButterflyBlueEyes: Glad you're enjoying it :) Hope you're not disappointed with this chapter, I tried to keep Sherlock in character as much as possible... (I love your username!)**

**FanFicGirl10: Hopefully that won't happen ;) Thanks for reviewing :)**

**InMollysWildestDreams: Glad you like it :D I know, Mary's awesome right?**

**So... Here ya go!**

**Moriarty: Aren't you forgetting something...?**

**Me: Oh no...**

**Disclaimer:**

**Sherlock: Moriarty's right. You don't own us.**

**Me: I don't like you anymore.**

**Moriarty: MWA HA HA!**

**Me: *Glares***

**I don't own Sherlock... Apparently.**

**(Also, this chapter and future chapters will/ might contain swearing. Just a warning.)**

_John_

I'm getting desperate. No one I've asked has seen any sign of Sherlock. Where the is that dick-head? I had no idea the news would hit him that hard. I knew he'd be extremely sorry, heart-broken maybe, but I never thought of he'd go this extreme. I've been sniffing around the neighbourhood for ages now, practically interrogating the public as to weather they'd seen a tall, dark, curly haired man stalking around. No one had. Not even his own brother knew where he could be apparently... I stop pacing on the side-walk and breathe. Panicking won't get me anywhere. I need to think. Where would Sherlock Holmes, the rude, ignorant bastard run to when he was shamefully scared? I close my eyes, my brows furrowed. I have no idea. As I sigh, my stomach growls. I'm really hungry.

Tired, stressed and mad, I decide to take a break and talk to Angelo. Also, I want something to eat badly. Thankfully, Angelo's restaurant is only a few minutes away, and I can certainly eat for free if I explain my situation, so I start to walk to Angelo's. A cool breeze slices through my cheek; I pull my coat collar up higher. Then, something shifts.

It's so tiny, but Sherlock's observation must be rubbing off on me, because in the stretched shadows, something moved. It was such a tiny nudge so small I almost missed it, but it seemed wrong somehow. My heart stutters. Adrenaline begins to pump through me, for an unknown reason, and I start towards the shadow. The unblinking stars are already visible on this cold night, meaning the entire alleyway I am trapped in, is neglected, freezing and very very dark. Silent as the dead, I tip-toe towards the movement on my right. Everything turns silent except for the dripping of a melting icicle on a windowsill. I shiver. I hold my breath. When I'm less than two meters away from the shadow I notice-

"JESUS!" I jump at the sound of my own yell. A massive crow flaps violently out of it's hiding place, screeching and zooms over my head. I exhale and laugh shakily at my own stupidity. What else was I expecting? I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes, overcome with relief. Still kind of scared though, I quicken my pace to escape the alley faster before pausing once more. Something is still off. That's when I see the dark figure behind me. I try to run, but a cold hand brushes my shoulder...

_Mary_

There's no answer. It's been half an hour since John called, and I've heard nothing from him. I'm starting to panic. Molly's unconscious. She wore herself out, crying so much, and now she's asleep on the carpet. Where is Sherlock? Why won't John answer? I decide to call Mycroft. Not that I want to, but I'm concerned about the two of them. Picking up my mobile again, I find his contact and hit call. I wait, and wait. And wait. A girl picks up on the final ring. "Yes?" She sounds extremely impatient.

"Can I speak to Mycroft Holmes please?" I keep my voice steady.

"Who's speaking?"

"Mary Morstan. Tell him that John won't pick up."

"Can you hold for a second?" It doesn't really sound much like a question.

"Yeah okay." It takes a very long time for him to actually pick up himself. I have to sit there for five whole minutes and then they asking me to hold again, before at last I hear his voice.

"What is it?" Despite his best efforts to hide it, I can hear the worry and stress leak through his monotone.

"John isn't picking up." I'm really getting worried now.

"That's odd." He remarks. I listen as he sits slightly straighter in his chair.

"Any signs of Sherlock?"

"No. I believe John's currently asking around for him." I bit my lip.

"You have no idea where he went? You know it's your brother he's looking for." I snap.

"No, I'm afraid I have no idea." Taking a deep breath to stay calm I say:

"I'm going looking for them. Please tell me if you hear from John."

"Of course." He drawls. Then hangs up. I stuff my phone in my pocket, and begin my man-hunt.

_Molly_

I yawn and stretch my arms out in front of me.

"Mary?" My voice is croaky and muffled. Then I remember Sherlock. Oh god. I fell asleep. How the hell could I fall asleep? My friend is missing? Panicking, I bring my nails up to my lips, and chew on them terrified. Stumbling through to the hallway, I spot a scrap of paper stuck to the table with a scrawling on it:

_Gone out looking for Sherlock and John. Don't worry, I'm fine. Please don't leave your house, there's a small chance Sherlock might come looking for you. Also, don't ask Mycroft for updates; He's an idiot._

_Mary xxx_

I giggle at that last part. Then the reminder of my disease comes flooding back to me. I shake my head and push it back. I won't think about that. Not now. To occupy my thoughts, I decide to watch some T.V. Swaying slightly, I make my way back to the living room, and grab the remote. Using both hands, I press down the broken 'on' button as hard as I can, really hoping it responds. Luckily it does. An unbearably high pitched squealing penetrates my ears, as the cheap telly searches for a signal. It makes that annoying rustling sound, like crumpling newspaper over the phone, and at last I see people laughing on a chat show. Absent-mindedly, I flick through the channels, that's when I notice the dark, hunched cloaked man in the corner of the room. I freeze.

_John_

_My neck aches. A loud rustling next to my ear makes me want to open my eyes. I can't. My eyes are paralysed like every other muscle in my body. I can't speak, move or scream. I can only just breathe. A strong aching sensation is growing in every part of my body. There's no light. I can only just make out muffled, slow voices and an extremely loud bang. A gunshot? Somewhere in the distance as I drift out of consciousness, I hear a kid's scream._

_Molly_

I gasp. The person doesn't move. He just stands with his head bowed, and hands fiddling in front of him. It takes me far too long to recognise him.

"S-Sherlock?" I stutter. I can feel the moisture in my eyes as I take in his weak stance.

Too shocked to function properly, I blink three times to take it in. Finally I begin to move slowly towards him. "Sherlock? Are... um... You okay?" He hasn't moved. He just stands hunched over in the dim lights from the living room. I feel like crying. I wish this crap had never happened... Fumbling around on the wall, I press the light switch to see him properly. He's a mess.

His long black coat isn't clinging mysteriously on his confident tall structure, instead it hangs like a rag from his shoulders. On his feet are mud coated shoes, with red specks splattered on them, and his hair is a mass of tangles, worse than normal. He has slices on his hands, which he's trying to keep covered. I can't see his face. "Jesus... What happened? Are you okay?" I frantically, run behind him and yank his coat off, hanging it on a hook. His suit is in an even worse shape. It's ripped in odd places, and on his side is a deep cut. "Oh my... Hang on, I've got a first aid kit upstairs..." I sprint up the stairs as fast as possible, snatch the kit, and half fall back down. "Get inside." I demand, taking his sleeve and pulling him through. Under the good lights I can finally see the state of his features. His cheekbones have grazes engraved into them, a chuck of flesh is missing from his lower lip, and a blue bruise is forming just above his eyebrow. He won't look at me. Without asking permission, I slip off his blazer to get a look at the nasty wound on his side. Frowning, I carefully lift his top to see it. He winces. "Sorry..." I mutter. "I need to clean it." So, taking a damp cloth, and dis-infectant stuff, I gently press on the cut. His fist clenches in pain. "Sorry... Um... What happened?" He doesn't speak. He isn't even breathing now. He won't look in my direction, or acknowledge my existence at all. Slightly hurt by his lack of response, I narrow my eyes and continue cleaning the wound. It's Sherlock. What did you expect? I ask myself.

After cleaning and bandaging the cut, I start dabbing his face instead, trying to ignore the sudden closeness between us...

"I'm sorry." Hang on... What? He still doesn't look at me as he says this. Instead he fixes his gaze outside of the window.

"Um... Okay... What for?" I stutter, blushing red like an idiot, and feeling the tears threatening to pour again.

"Everything." He pretty much whispers this, and hangs his head again. Fumbling with his hands. Taking his chin with my left hand, I pull his face up, so I can resume tidying his face up.

After ten minutes of silence, I'm finished. As I pack my first aid stuff away, I go to call Mary. I'd completely forgotten about her and John, too busy trying not to think of the cancer, and too concerned for Sherlock. But before I make it to my mobile, Sherlock does something really un-Sherlock-like. He hugs me. At least, I think it was meant to be a hug, because his arms wrap around my waist, and he awkwardly pulls me into his chest. My mind swirled. What. The. Hell. He clearly doesn't have much experience with hugging. I can practically hear the cogs in his head whirring as he tries to figure out what to do. He doesn't smell too great. His shirt smells mostly of mud, blood and dirt, but I can detect some strange male-perfume smell wafting from his neck. Sherlock wears perfume? At that second, I burst into fits of uncontrollable giggles. I have no idea why.

Sherlock Holmes the high-functioning sociapath is hugging me because he's clearly upset, and I'm laughing about it? That's when I feel the salt water dripping down my cheeks again. Great. Now not only have I laughed at Sherlock sad, I'm also crying on him. Just great.

He pulls away looking completely confused. "Why are you laughing?" I decide not to mention the perfume, so I simply shrug, and wipe away the tears. "You're crying." He observers. I shrug again, and manage a weak smile. "I don't think I'll be trying that again then." He grumbles. Turning away. I can see a faint red glow spreading over his neck. Was he blushing!? No way... I giggle and sob. "Sherlock... What happened? Where did you go?" He doesn't answer. Again. I sigh. "We were worried-"

"I know." His voice sounds thick and heavy.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" I look at the side of his face.

"I don't want you to die..." He whispers. He looks so helpless. My heart shatters into a million pieces as he speaks.

"It isn't fair..." He trails off. I do the only thing that comes to mind. I hug him again; burying his head in my shoulder. I start to cry. "I know." I sob. Then my mobile rings. Taking a shaky breath, I untangle myself from Sherlock, dry my eyes, and swivel around to check the caller ID. Mary. Forcing a smile, I click answer. "Hey Mary, Sherlock's here." I expect a sigh of relief from her end, but instead I'm greeted by a terrifying silence.

"Molly... Someone's taken John."

A**w... Poor old John. First he gets bombs stuck to him, them he gets chucked in a fire, and now this :) Oh well :D It's still good fun! Pretty pleeeease review and follow! Chapter 6 should be up soon :)**


	6. The Message

**W.O.W. I have reached... 2,000 views EEEEK! THANKYOU! I LOVE YOU GUYS (Not creepily...) So... yeah. Here's Chapter 6! Hope you liked the last chapter? Firstly, let me say another MASSIVE thankyou to some reviewers:**

**TwilightMortal: Thankyou :D Your stories are AMAZING too!**

**FanFicGirl10: I know right!? All good fun though :) I know that Sherlock and Molly scene was kind of short and lame. I'll try to get a better one in somewhere.**

**Partyat221bwithbatman: Glad you like it :) I feel kinda sorry for John, after all everyone he's ever met is a psychopath!**

**Lastly, I'm changing the way I'm doing the disclaimers, because I might as well just do one that applies to all of this story right? (I have no clue as to why I didn't think of that before now...)**

**Disclaimer that applies to the rest of the story too:**

**Me: *Punches Moriarty* I don't own Sherlock... :(**

_John_

"_Wake uuuup. Joooohhn Wake uup." Someone sings my name in my right ear._

"_JOHN. WAKE UP." I gasp, and to my surprise, my eyes open. A painful light burns; I squint. I can make out a silhouette of a man in a business suit. His voice echoes around my head; probably lasting effects of the drug. Something hard and cold digs into my back uncomfortably, wire rope binds my wrists and ankles, and a stench of metal fills my nostrils. A warm streak trickles over my top lip. Blood. Desperately, I scan the figure above me for any signs of identification. His voice has a horrible familiar ring to it. "John. WAKE UP." Rough skin smashes into my cheek._

"_WAKE UP NOW."_

"_I'M AWAKE." I blink hard at my own outburst. The drug has nearly worn off completely. The only signs that it's still in my system is the lack of pain. But that could just be the adrenaline. The man hovering above me starts to sway into focus. I recognise him immediately... But it's impossible..._

_Molly_

He doesn't move. The only show of emotion that remains is the microscopic brush of concern in his blue eyes. We don't speak. All I can hear is Mary sniffing, and the thunder of footsteps on her side of the phone. Sherlock heard.

"Police." His voice is barely audible over the silence. I nod slightly, and return my attention back to Mary.

"Mary, don't worry. Why do you think someone's got-" Before I can finish, Sherlock frantically yanks the mobile out of my wobbly grip.

"Where did you see him last?" I frown. Maybe I was wrong about the concern. His voice doesn't break once.

"When I set off to Molly's."

"Why do you think someone's taken him?"

"Because..." She breathes quietly.

"FOCUS." I jump at the change in volume.

"There's a message... On the wall... In blood..." I hold my breath.

"Where are you?"

She murmurs an address I don't catch, and before I can even start to accept what's happening, Sherlock has thrown himself out the door. Then, I do something completely stupid. I follow him. He

waves his hand angrily at the coming taxi, which refuses to stop.

"Sherlock." I call to him, trying to be heard over the sudden downpour of rain.

"Molly. Get back inside." He snaps, and shouts again as a taxi flies past. No luck

"Sherlock, listen-"

"MOLLY, GET BACK INSIDE!" He practically screams as me, turning around to face me.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES. YOU WILL LISTEN TO ME RIGHT NOW." He stops. I feel the irritation of constantly being thrown aside like a used toy bubble up inside of me.

"We don't have time to get a taxi. I'm driving." I say, speed-walking towards my mini, feeling proud of myself. Wow! I yelled at Sherlock!? When did I learn to do that?

"You're not coming." He states, jogging towards me with his coat floating behind him like a super-man cape. Drama queen...

"Er, yes I am." I snap back, and fall into the car.

"I'm driving so-"

"SHERLOCK GET IN THE CAR. I'M DRIVING." Unbelievably, he does. Either he feels sorry about my current 'condition', or he's as shocked as I am over my sudden bravery. Most likely a mixture of both. Rummaging through my pockets, I grip the familiar key, and punch it into the ignition, forcing it to the side. Okay. I'll admit it. I'm scared. In fact I'm downright terrified. But there's NO way in hell I'm letting Sherlock Holmes drive my car.

Plucking up what little courage I seem posses, I slam down on the accelerator, and we're off. The vehicle spurs into action much faster than I expected, and I just miss the wheely bins in my drive. Soon, we're off my driveway, and into the road. Pushing on the accelerator as hard as I dare, we speed past buildings and overtake cars. Ahead lies an unbelievably tight turning. I panic. Shit. Taking the wheel in both hands, I spin it as far as possible to the left, letting the scream of tires

half-deafen the public. Internally, I breathe a sigh of relief, and hold my breath. If I loose concentration, even for a second, chances are, me Sherlock and possibly John, will end up dead. Along the straight road I'm speeding through, sits two traffic lights, both on amber. I nearly stand up on the pedal trying to get the mini to speed up and cursing when it made little difference. Nearly there... Almost... YES. We fly in-between the lights as they flash back to red. The street-lights soar past us, a blurry picture of modern art in the window screens. Then I realise I don't know which turning to take.

"Right, then left, then left again." Sherlock bellows over the fearless roar of the tiny engine. I swerve dangerously to the right, missing the curb by mere centimetres. Another straight road follows, so I hammer the gas, and hope to god we aren't too late. Left. A young lady screams, as I just manage to avoid her, brushing her skirt with the wheel. Sighing quickly, I almost forget to turn again, as a brick wall blocks my path. At the last millisecond, I throw the wheel left again.

"STOP." Sherlock yells. So I do. I hit the brakes, and feel myself propelled forwards as the car come to a sudden halt. I shut my eyes, lean back and grip the edge of my chair. Sherlock jumps out of the car, chucking his phone at me.

Oh... My... God. I just sped through most London, while having cancer, while standing up to Sherlock Holmes, while trying to save John. I take shaky breaths, and then I laugh. I giggle hysterically, completely gob-smacked at how the evening has turned out. Eventually, I pull myself together, and stop. That's it. I've gone mad. High on the rush of adrenaline, I tap my anxious fingers against my leg, and pick up the talking mobile. Greg.

"Sherlock? Sherlock listen, where are you? Hello?"

"Hey Greg, it's me." Oh no. He doesn't know yet...

"Oh, Molly hi!" He sounds relieved to hear me.

"What's going on? Where are you? What's this about John being kidnapped?"

"I'm at... Uh... I'm down Greenway alley? And we're pretty certain John's been taken. Can you get some officers down here?"

"Oh Jesus... Yeah course. Can you put Sherlock on?" I start to nudge my way out of my car.

"Yep. Hang on a second." Pulling myself out of the mini, I scan around for Sherlock and Mary, spotting them at the opposite end of of the alley, crowding around the wall. Presumably the message. I have to tell Greg... Shut up, I scold myself. Think of John. So, I walk over to them, and call out for Sherlock, handing him the phone. As soon as he hears his name, he sprints over, and grabs the mobile without even looking at me. Shaking it off, I go to stand with Mary. She's obviously been crying. Her face is red and swollen, and her eyes are unfocussed. She's staring, devastated at the brick wall in front of her. I turn to the message.

It's been splattered on the wall in a messy red scrawling, dribbling down and staining the pavement. I swallow bile. From what I can tell, it's been done with fingers, not a brush. There are two lines for each word, one for each finger. Some of it has dried, leaving behind a thick, burgundy substance with lumps in it, however most is still dripping silently downwards. Putting aside my shock and horror, I read what it says:

JOHN WATSON

TRUTH OR DARE?

PICK BEFORE MIDNIGHT.

CALL ME AT: CaSrHfAuLi

XXX

Who the hell... I shudder., and look at Mary. She's extremely pale.

"Excuse me." She gasps, and runs behind a dustbin. Soon I hear the disgusting noise of retching. I move behind her, patting her back.

"You okay?" I ask quietly after a while?

"Uh huh." She replies wavering slightly. Slowly, she starts to stand up straighter from her bent over position.

"You?" I frown at her question.

"Um... Yeah. I guess." The horrible empty feeling is starting to return, swallowing me whole.

"Does Greg know?" That's when I cry again. It starts with a single tear that I wipe away with the back of my hand, then another comes, and another. Soon, a drizzle of rain is pouring down my cheeks. Mary sobs quietly, and hugs me. We stand in each others company until the police arrive, listening to Sherlock pacing like a mad-man. Finally, we hear the screech of sirens.

"Sherlock, Molly, what's happened?" Yells the familiar voice of my friend. I stifle a scream, and step out, dragging Mary with me.

"Shit. What the hell hap-" He fixes his gaze upon the stained brick wall, and swallows.

"Christ... Molly, you okay?" He runs over to me. Guilt, and grief grabs my heart and toys with it. I nod.

"It's impossible to tell where John is with this clue. Get DNA samples from the blood, and find where the victim is and weather he's still alive. I need to make a phone call." He starts to jog away in the other direction.

"Sherlock wait! Shouldn't we get people out look-"

"JUST DO IT NOW." He bellows. Everyone falls silent. He either doesn't notice the amount of thick sentiment dripping through his tone or her doesn't care, because he storms away to make his phone-call.

"Okay then. Anderson, get over here. DNA analysis now. Everyone else, keep this place closed off, and ask around for information regarding John Watson's whereabouts before he was kidnapped." He rubs his hand over his forehead as everyone gets to work. I have to tell him.

"Greg..." I begin.

"What's up? You okay?" His tone is laced with concern. I don't want to tell him. I didn't want to tell anyone. I want life just to go one as it normally does. I just want everything to go back to normal. It's so unfair.

"No... I've..." I sob, and bury my head into Mary's shoulder next to me.

"I've got terminal cancer." He doesn't speak. I can't look at him. I can't bear to. I can hear an uncomfortable shuffling of feet, and a sniffle from my friend next to me. I have my eyes pinched shut tightly, hiding myself in Mary's shoulder, wishing I could just disappear. I'd love to tell you that it's easier getting through this crap with friends. I'd love to be able to tell you that I'm able to smile through these tears, and see the tiny flicker of hope. But if I did, I'd be lying. Because that's not what it's like. Not at all.

**Oooh, where's John? What's (Evil kidnapper) going to do to him!? Keep reading to find out. And don't forget to review :D Love constructive criticism lots :) Stay tuned for Chapter 7.**


	7. Truth or Dare?

**So heya! Sorry this update wasn't as fast as they normally are, but I've just started a new story called: Extremely unordinary. It's a DeathNote fanfic, and it would be awesome if you could check it out :) Firstly, reveiwers thankyou so much again:**

**TwilightMortal: Maybe... Maybe not! Thankyou :)**

**partyat221bwithbatman: Yeah, thought Molly could be good in action senes :)**

**ButterflyBlueEyes: Thankyou :) and you're welcome.**

**So here ya go, Chapter 7, enjoy!**

_Sherlock_

Everything around me is is crumbling down, like the bricks of a home. My home. My brain screams at me to stop out of exhaustion, but my legs are moving without my permission. The useless emotions burn inside me, slowly killing me from inside out. I can't focus. My cold demeanour has been ripped open by the sharp daggers of pain that have sliced through my heart, and disabled any logic that once was how I survived. I keep walking away from them, into the heart of the darkness nearing the end of the alley. First Molly and now this. I let oxygen flood into my dry lungs before flicking on my phone, and punching in his number. I'm not surprised that the police couldn't figure out the code on the wall, but it was still very simple. Shutting my eyes, I hold back any brush of sentiment that might leak through my monotone before hitting call.. It rings twice before he picks up.

"Heya Sherlock! Lovely to hear from yooou!" I can hear the anger, madness and instability woven into his taunting tone, as he sings into the mouthpiece. I exhale sadly.

"Hello Moriarty.

_Lastrade_

Horror rushes through my veins. She stands, leaning onto Mary's shoulder sobbing quietly, completely broken. I swallow. Please no... This can't be happening... This is Molly. She can't die. She just can't. Nothing can be that cruel surely. As realisation hits, an invisible gaping hole punches through my chest, leaving behind deep scars that cut me in two. I hang my head, which is suddenly heavier, and hunch my shoulders inwards. I don't cry. I'm just not that sort of person, but I still feel. And this? This is the worst feeling ever. I can't bring myself to even look at Molly; she's my friend. What do I say? I'm sorry? What use will that do? It won't fix anything. It'll just remind us that this entire situation, her life isn't in our control any more. The grief glues me to the spot, and I clench my fists in frustration, nails penetrating my skin, nearly drawing blood. This is wrong. It's not fair. In blind rage, I lash out at the solid brick wall in front of me, kicking it, and hating the weak thud that sends pain waves up my leg. I slap my eyelids together, and try to calm down, listening to the grating of someone moving equipment. Concentrating hard, I forcefully shove my emotions to the back of my mind, first Mary, next John and then very guiltily, Molly.

"Talk later okay?" I mutter, and go to talk to Anderson without looking back. Refusing to acknowledge the missing piece of my heart.

"What you got?" My voice stays steady.

"Nothing yet. Got people analysing it now." He replies. I look down at him. He has a scraggly beard that looks awful, complete with margarine coated hair, that's been scraped back from his unattractive face. His eyes have a glint of hatred in them, no doubt for Sherlock.

"Where's the weirdo?" He snaps, before turning back at the message. I grind my teeth.

"He just left. Gave us instructions-"

"Since when did we follow _his _orders. Last time I checked, he was working for us-"

"Anderson, he's working with us. And we need him on our team. He's twice as good as anyone else here, and he has helped us in the past and never once taken the credit." I defend the high-functioning sociapath.

"Hmph." Anderson ignores me. It hadn't always been like this. He did admire Sherlock when he jumped, after he was proven innocent, but that didn't last long. Soon enough the two men were back to hating each other, and Anderson went back to being his normal miserable self.

Stressed, I rub my forehead, and glance around to see Sally stalking up to us like a cat on a scent. She wears a black pencil skirt, a white blouse and black high heels. She looks around like the entire world is below her superior level, which of course, couldn't be further from the truth, as Sally's intellect is far below the norm, meaning Sherlock constantly replies to her snide comments in a witty manner. She hates him too. If fact, I think most of the population hate Sherlock Holmes.

"Freak's run off then." Normally, I can ignore Donovan's overused nickname, but today has been really really bad.

"Donovan! If you call Sherlock that one more time, you are off this case." I snap.

"But that's all he is boss. A creepy psychopath who gets off on solving messed up crimes. We dont need him he-"

"SHUT UP DONOVAN!" My stomach twists in irrational fury, my vision sways dangerously and my feet hurt. A lot. She glances around nervously, deciding what to do. I sigh.

"I'm sorry... Just... go." Turning around, I watch Anderson, bent over uncomfortably with a small microscope pinched between his grasp staring with narrowed eyes at the patterns in the red brick paint. I stand behind him, waiting for an answer to the bursting questions boiling in my mind. His fingers stay motionless as he gawks through the thin glass silent. Then, something weird happens. Like, really really weird. He starts twitching and shaking and his breathing turns from quiet to heavy panting. First his fingers wobble, then the microscope sways out of his line of view, then the tremor vibrates up his arm, spreading to his shoulder and way too soon, his entire body is quivering.

"Anderson, uhm... Are you okay?" He doesn't answer. His back is still facing me.

"Anderson..." He whimpers. What. The. Hell. The shaking increases, sending horrible spine jolting jerks through his curled up form. I bite my tongue. A tiny plop sounds when the set of

instruments he was holding, falls to the floor. I start to move. Slowly, I twist myself around to see his face, covered by the shadows. My footsteps thud above all the other noises. Everything pauses. Turning to face me. He frowns.

"You okay officer?" He asks. I blink. What on earth just happened?

_Sherlock_

"Aw Sherlooock! I was slightly worried you couldn't figure it out! I bet the officers didn't even pay much notice to it right? Too preoccupied with the blood. People are so ordinary. You do know whose blood that is right?"

"How could I not?" He giggles maniacally.

"Well, I was worried you might be getting slow-"

"The seemingly random bundle of letters you so kindly left for me, aren't random at all. It's very simple. Every combination is an element of the periodic table. Each element is numbered in the top left of the box. Easy." I exhale silently.

"Oh good. Well, have you chosen? Truth or Dare?" I've chosen. My plan is fool proof, there's no way he could use the information to-

"Joooohhnn! Have you picked yet!?" Grindingly, a cog clicks. He wants John to pick. Not me. My stomach knots, my palms are damp and clenched. Jesus...

"PICK NOW." Something shifts. A scream tears through the mobile, accompanied by the rustling of a bad signal. John.

"TRUTH! I choose t-truth." Moriarty claps, dropping his phone.

"YES! I so LOVE doing truths! So John tell me, where do Sherlock's parents live?" I shut my eyes, desperate to wake up from this nightmare. He intends to burn me. Inside out. Harming anyone who I hold as important, before finally ending the . The knot in my stomach jumps up into my chest, where it tightens and sears.

"I don't know-"

"DON'T LIE TO ME. IF I ONCE SUSPECT YOU'RE LYING, I WILL KILL THAT PRETTY MARY AND SKIN YOUR CHILD." I shudder. John's voice is so quiet and weak. He doesn'teven reply to the threat. Another yell tears through.

"They live in London wh-"

"No. They. DON'T." Screaming fills the silence. I drop the mobile to my side momentarily. I don't want to hear this.

"They live at.." I don't listen to the address that John sobs out to the psychopath. Instead, I focus on a small crack in the pavement, observing the dirt that had wormed its way in, and watch a fly land, buzzing contently.

"Finished?" I snap when the silence resumes.

"Absolutely not." He sounds insulted.

"But if you don't find Johnny within two days, he's as good as dead." He hangs up.

**Uh oh. Poor John :( Find out what happens in Chapter 3! Thanks for reading :D**


	8. Worst day

**Hallo! YES! As you can see, we do have internet connection here, thankgod :) Sadly though, I'm going for walks and stuff like everyday, so updates will be slower sorry /:( First a thankyou to:**

**TwilightMortal: I know! Even though he's kidnapped John he's still awesome!**

**Fliperthepenguin: Thanks fo reading all in one :) Glad you're enjoying it!**

**ShadowedSkyLord: That minecraft house had better not have worked... Oh, and thanks for reviewing!**

**FanficGirl10: Don't worry about it :) Yep. Poor Molly :(**

**So, here's Chapter 8! (Oh, it replaces the authors note that were there.)**

_Molly_

"Come on. Let's go home." Mary mutters.

"Okay."

Soon both of us are back in my car, with me driving. Pushing the gas, we start back into the main streets of London. I turn to Mary, biting my lip.

"You want to stay with me tonight?" She looks at me with wide, child-like eyes, lost and worried.

"Yes please. um... Have... um... I mean... Have you told..." She stutters.

"Just spit it out." I say, and attempt a weak smile, which yanks my muscles from the constant scrunched up frowning.

"Your parents..." She finishes, guiltily glancing down to her lap. I gulp.

"Um... No... Not yet. I will tomorrow..." Biting my lip again, I stare out at the road, using driving as an excuse to focus on something else.

"Sorry... it's none of my business..." Out of the corner of my eye, she fiddles with her fingers, interlocking them and tangling them around each other. I frown.

"Don't worry about it." I assure her, before turning my attention back to the grey road. I stop as the traffic lights flash to show red, hitting the brakes, blinking away white lights from my vision.

After ten minutes, we're back at my place. Slamming the door, I fiddle with my keys, and punch them into the lock. Opening the door, my cat pounces up to me, rubbing herself on my ankle, leaving behind a mess of black fur.

"Hey Jinx." I murmur, hanging my coat on a hook, before taking Mary's off her and hanging it up next to mine. Bending over, I pick her up, cuddle her in my arms and bury my face in her back. She purrs louder than a motorbike. Not looking at Mary, I walk into my small living room, still holding the black cat with her green eyes closed in comfort. Mary shuffles behind me, and I flop down onto the cream sofa, letting Jinx purr on my lap. Mary sits down in the armchair next to me. Silence expands the empty feeling starting to build in my stomach. I gulp.

"Well... You can take the my room upst-" I stop when I see her.

"Mary!? Hey, it'll be okay." I quickly nudge the sleeping cat off my knees, leaning over to my friend. She's crying with her back in hunched over, in a crumpled, scared position, her face covered with shaking hands, and inflated stomach pressed into her knees. My hand moves to her back, rubbing in comforting circles.

"Hey," I begin gently.

"Don't worry, we'll find him. I'm sure he's fine, he knows how to look after himself right?" I add, like that makes any difference.

"Besides, you know how much Sherlock looovveesss John, he won't let anyone touch him okay?" I say lacing my tone with a pathetic smile. She sniffles through a giggle that transforms into a sob. Pulling her shoulders back, she unfolds herself, and squares her shoulders at me. Puddles start to tickle behind my eyes. I blink frantically. Now isn't a good time to cry. Mary is the one who needs comforting. Not me. I'm okay. Well, I'm not, but if I keep telling myself that maybe I will be.

"You take my room upstairs, I'm taking the couch." I demand, taking her hand to pull her up the stairs. Too tired to complain, she stumbles into the room, and shuts the door.

Out of sight, I let the water trickle down my face. Swallowing misery, I go back downstairs. Taking a sheet and pillow, I collapse on the sofa, pulling the sheet up to my chin, and burying my achy head in the soft pillow. Jinx cuddles up next to me, nuzzling my hand with her pink nose. I smile, tickling her head. Looking back, this has to be the worst day of my entire life. In the morning my hair was a birds nest, the doctor told me I have terminal cancer, and now John's been kidnapped.

Crappy day.

_Sherlock_

Lastrade runs towards me.

"SHERLOCK, SHERLOCK!? You okay? Any clues?" He exclaims through pants. I ignore him walking away from the message, the police and any clues that fools think they've found.

"Hey?! Listen!" He grabs my arm. I shake it off. Can't he see I don't want to talk now?

"What!? Too stupid to understand am I?! What did you find-"

"NOTHING." I practically scream at him.

"Moriarty has left no clues. At all." His jaw hangs open like a goldfish.

"Hang on, it was Moriarty? But they said the 'Miss me' tape had nothing to do..." I watch his eyes widen, and fists loosen slightly, defeated already.

"You mean... Moriarty has John?" He says, pronouncing each letter slowly, trying to take it all in. I nod tightly, continuing to walk away.

"Oh god no..." I hear him mutter. I know I should tell him what's going on, but what would really be the point? There's nothing anyone there can do. I'm the only person who can find John, but I have to wait for Moriarty to send me the clues. I hate the fact I have no control over this whole stinking mess. The only way I have any chance of finding him, is by relying on Moriarty. I sigh, running my hand through my hair. Molly. Shaking the sentiment away, I start to stumble aimlessly through London.

One minute passes. Two. Three. Before I even realise it, an hour has passed. An hour of ambling through blurred lights, busy people, and fuzzy lines. I stop and look around. I'm standing next to an empty road. Desolated. Not a single human being so much as breathes the same air as I stand in. No one. For the first time in twelve years, I'm completely alone. This should comfort me. Loneliness is my style. I don't want other people. Other people slow you down. Other people distract you. Other people are useless. But for some crazy reason, suddenly my whole life leans on my 'friends'. I curl my lip in disgust. Who have I become? Since when did I care about Molly or John or Lastrade? I cant even begin to answer my own question. My brain is swimming at a million miles an hour, but I can't seem to place what its actually focused on. Inside the palace of deep thoughts, complete chaos seems to be ripping the logic, intelligence and robot side apart, replacing it with a sticky mush swimming with visions of Molly, and John. My feet seem to know exactly where to go, but my brain is just a heavy weight, being dragged along behind.

_Molly_

Someone raps the door. My eyes pull themselves open groggily. I shove Jinx off my stomach, and fall into the door. Pressing my puffy face against the wood, I glare through the spy-hole at my visitor. Hang on, is that Sherlock? Again? Frowning, I unlock the door.

"Sherlock?" It's hard to read his face, but I must look pretty bad. I can make out his eyes widening slightly, and maybe even the trace of a smirk etching onto his features.

"Oh shut up, I don't look that bad." I mutter, mostly to myself. He shrugs, a strange gesture for Sherlock.

"Um... Want to come in?"

"Okay." His tone is unsteady, hushed, like he's afraid someone will hear.

"Oh but keep it down, Mary's asleep." I add quickly, shutting the door behind him as he throws his coat onto the back of a chair.

"So... What you doing here?" I stumble, searching for small-talk. He shrugs. Again. I start to worry. This isn't like Sherlock at all. He never gives any inclination that he doesn't know the answer. It makes him look almost, human... I shake the odd thought off. Of course he's human.

"Are... Um... You okay...?" He asks this with a confused expression on his face, like he doesn't know weather that was the right question to ask.

"Not really." I say truthfully, emptiness creeping into me. I stand in the doorway awkwardly, suddenly absorbed by the appalling state of my fingernails.

"Ah." Is his only reply, followed by a very heavy silence. I bite my tongue, not daring to ask about John. He probably won't want to brag about the fact his best friend's missing, and he obviously has no leads.

"Tea?" I attempt.

"No thankyou" He says back, refusing to look at my face, turning instead to the painting over the dead fireplace. I shift as he scans it.

"Who did that?" He asks, gesturing at it with a steady hand. I blush.

"Uh... M-me." His head swivels around and for the first time he looks at me. I don't know what I expected. Emotion maybe? But instead I got the cold, hard face looking at me with slight surprise and possibly admiration in his ice eyes.

"Do you um... Like it?" I try after a while of him staring at me coldly.

"It's above average." He says with difficulty, eyes darting around my flat.

"Oh.. Uh... Good. I guess. Thanks." The awkwardness reduces a bit, so I go to sit on the sofa covered with a sheet and pillow, his eyes stalking my every movement, watching me like an experiment he's conducting. Another awkward silence follows. He looks back to the picture.

"So... I should really get back to sleep..." I say.

"Hm."

"Are... You staying?"

"Yes." It's impossible to read through his monotone.

"Well... Make yourself at home, feel free to turn the kettle on or whatever. Night." I Roll onto my side away from him. If you've ever tried this, you will know that it's pretty much impossible to sleep when you know the dark, mysterious man who you've had a stupid crush on almost all your life is right behind you watching. Oh, and having terminal cancer might have something to do with it as well. So in a strange way, I'm kind of relieved when Sherlock's phone bleeps. He gasps. I dry my face, and turn.

"What is it?"

"A clue."

**Awwww! Sherlock can be nice sometimes :D Please review and follow, it encourages me to write more :)**


	9. The First Clue

**Hallo! So sorry this update's been sllooowww /:( I'm on holiday ya see meaning I actually have stuff to do other than sit inside all day :) Seriously though, the beach here is gorgeous :) I wanna move :( Thankyou again to:**

**FanFicGirl10: Yup :D Poor John :) Well he is Sherlock so that might be difficult for him! I'm also slightly worried that Sherlock's a bit out of character.**

**TwilightMortal: Thankyoooooou :)**

**SophiieeMary: Wow! Thanks for reviewing so much so suddenly! Really helpful advice :) Also, excuse the grammar, I know for a fact most of it's probably wrong oops!**

**So, without further ado, I give you...**

_John_

_A lumpy, red substance dribbles off my chin and plops onto the floor. My arms throb with exhaustion of being tied up for so long. The rope binding my wrists burns if I move more than a centimetre, and I swear there's a fire sizzling inside my skull._

"_Aw! Sherlock must be so worried! I bet he misses you lots." His voice is muffled._

"_But, don't you worry John, I won't kill you yet... Probably. I just really wish you'd recognised me the very first time we met. But It had been a very very long time." I try to focus on what he's saying, but my brain feels like sloppy mush. I'm so tired. I just need sleep..._

"_WAKE UP." He shrieks as the other guy punches me again. I can't feel his fist collide with my face, but I see the moment from the side. Sherlock had better come soon..._

_Molly_

I lean over the screen next to Sherlock.

"What is that?" I ask.

"A tattoo. Obviously." I roll my eyes slightly.

"Yes but what of?"

"I've seen this before..." He ignores my question.

"Okay..." On the screen is a photo of crusty, yellowed skin with a strange blue tattoo engraved into it. It looks like a lotus flower with a thin ring around it and in the corner of the screen is the number 3. It's impossible to tell where the tattoo is on the persons body, but going by the wrinkles around it, the tattoo is small and most likely easily concealed. Sherlock jumps up and starts pacing the room furiously, shaking the mantelpiece and my painting that hangs above.

"I remember this too..." I say. I try to rumble through my memories, searching for the mark when-

"THE GANG!" I yell, my mouth working faster than my mind.

"Sorry, what?"

"You came into the morgue once looking at these guys feet for a matching tattoo, they were part of a gang or something right?" I watch his eyes brighten, while an excited smirk spreads across his features, and shockingly, he crouches down and kisses me on the head. The room sways for a moment as blood floods my face.

"Of course! The Blind Banker!" He says. I smile and look down, still flustered. So he does read John's blog...

"But how is that a-" I'm cut off.

"THE MUSEUM! Of course! I need to get there now." Not looking to see if I'm coming, he grabs his coat and runs out the house, me following not too far behind. Following him out the door, I stop to wait for a taxi with him.

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND," I yell over the engines of cars. He looks at me like I've turned into a frog.

"How does this help us?"

"Ugh. You people make me wonder if I should resort to the skull." I frown, not fully understanding the insult. What skull?

"The tattoo is linked to Soo-Lin-Yao, a woman who was killed in the blind banker case, and the number at the bottom was her house number." He looks at me with a hopeful expression on his face, waiting for me to get it. I don't.

"Um... So..."

"SO, she worked at the museum, that's where I'm going."

"Shouldn't we go to her house inst-"

"No obviously not. That would be far too obvious. And that's not where one of the graffiti signs was found." He snaps and calls out for a taxi. Before he shuts the door, I leap in.

"Get out, you're not coming."

"Fat chance."

"I said get out."

"No."

"Get out now."

"Nope." I say stubbornly, popping the 'p'.

".. Please?" He fakes adorable puppy eyes, and smiles down at me. My insides flutter, and I can practically feel my will-power melting, but he's not going to win this one.

"No." He drops the act faster than I thought possible, and replaces it with a cold, nasty glare.

"Where to?" The cabbie asks us. Sherlock says the address of the place so fast, I can't understand a word.

"Get us there in less than ten minutes and I'll triple the fair." He mutters a bit calmer. Without another word the cabbie slams on the gas, and we start to fly through London. Next to me, Sherlock is typing into his mobile, punching the buttons like his life depends on it. Maybe it does... I shuffle away, suddenly noticing the close proximity between the two of us.

"You're not coming in. It's Moriarty who's taken him" He says simply. What...? I gulp. There's no way...

"What? Moriarty? But the miss me tape wasn't related I thought..." He's back... He's actually alive... I swallow down panic, and breathe. Of course it's Moriarty, this is just the sort of thing he'd do. To him, this is all just a game. A sick, twisted little game of Truth or Dare, with one Looser and one survivor.

"So you're not coming inside."

"Er, yes I am."

"You can't."

"Oh really!? Why not?" Sherlock's starting to really annoying me. He doesn't respond for a bit, and I wonder if he's even paying attention.

"It could be a trap." I scoff at his useless attempt at persuading me.

"I don't care. I'd rather die trying to save someone's life than die uselessly of cancer." A sharp pang stabs at my chest when I hear myself say that. I hate thinking about my 'condition' as the doctor had called it, but it shuts him up.

We reach the building after an awkward journey on my part. Naturally, it's closed. I mean come on, it's two in the morning. Who else would want to visit the museum this early, or late in my case? I get out and stand in front of the silhouetted building. Without a word, Sherlock throws some money at the cabbie and stands next to me.

The museum looks like... Well a museum I guess. It's bricks are grey and old, perfectly stacked without so much as a breathing gap in it's castle like walls. There are two sad, drooping posters either side, both advertising theme parks or kids attractions of some kind, and the door was one of those heavy, wooden lumps that creak when you shove them open. I swallow. I seriously hope this isn't a trap. I'm not exactly suicidal... Yet.

"Wait here?" He says hopefully.

"Not a chance." I half whisper back. This place gives me the creeps.

"Fine. Follow me and shut up." His voice is quiet and rushed. Turning his collar up, as normal, he begins to stalk around the monster castle, searching for a way in. I tip-toe silently behind, even matching his footsteps so I can't get lost. Soon, he spots a window, bolted shut. He hums in thought. Scanning around he picks up a metal pole near someone's car, jams it under the bolt and pushes. A loud groaning echoes through the stiff silence that hovers over us. I wince. He glances around to see if anyone has noticed. I hold my breath. Thankfully, the silence continues. Catching the bolt before it smashes onto the floor, he jumps onto the ledge, he hauls himself over inside the museum. I gulp. This is illegal,,, What if we're caught? What happens then? I've never been arrested for breaking into a building before. Will I go to prison? But, what do I have to loose? Ignoring the voices that scream at me to go back, I crawl in too.

I land in an inelegant heap on cold tiles. Sherlock smirks. Getting up onto my hands and knees. I mouth at him to shut up, and draw my finger across my throat to emphasise the threat. He holds out a hand, which I gladly take and brush myself off. Quietly, he rummages around in his jacket and pulls out a cylinder shaped object. A torch. Does he always carry a torch around? Strange... He clicks it on and shines it at me. I squint and cover my face with my hands. Turning from me, he sparkles the beam of light around the room.

We stand silently in a sort of storage room, with long elongated shadows stretched menacingly out across the walls. The floor is completely coved by brown, cardboard boxes, all suffocating in the ridiculous amount of duct tape wrapped endlessly around them and the ceiling is a depressing grey sea of cracks, cobwebs and rusted paint. Soon, Sherlock is tiptoeing over the boxes, scanning around for any signs of an alarm. Unbelievably, there are none. I frown. Surely a museum this big would have alarms in the storage rooms right? That's just odd.

Then I see them.

Piled in the corner lie three security guards piled up in a pyramid of tangled limbs and mangled flesh. Blood flows like a river away from then, slowly trickling in my direction. Stepping sideways into a gap between two boxes, I neatly dodge the stream, and feel my stomach churn.

"Sherlock." I hiss. He turns his head my way, and I stab my index finger at the bleeding bodies in the corner.

"I know." He whispers, then carries on walking forwards. Torn between helping the probably already dead people and Sherlock, I hesitate.

"Hurry up." He snaps. Looking back at the pile, I mentally apologise to the poor sods, and follow Sherlock. Eventually we escape the storage, and find ourselves in a long corridor, with an elevator at the end. I step in front of Sherlock to get a better view, but he shoves me back behind him.

"Stay." He orders. What am I his obedient pet dog now? He starts flashing the white light side to side searching for any signs of an alarm. Soon finding that there are none, he waves me over with his hand, and punches the elevator button open. The light flashes. Who leaves the elevators on a night? Moriarty must have this whole thing planned out. Trying not to think of him, I follow Sherlock into the lift. I shiver as we step in. As the doors close I sigh with reliefe. We've made it through one room... I turn to Sherlock, then see his horrified expression.

"What the..." He trails off. I look at what he's talking about and gasp. On the buttons where numbers should be are instead 5 words:

LASTRADE

SHERLOCK JR

HUDSON

MOLLY

MARY

Luv Moriarty xxx

"What does it mean?" I ask, trying not to freak out over my name. He doesn't reply, but his normally pale skin skin seems to loose what little colour it has.

"I... Have to pick."

"Why?" I have a horrible feeling I know why, but I don't want to believe it.

"If I don't, they, you... all die." I can feel my eyes widen so much that they are in serious danger of dropping out of their sockets. I swallow back vomit.

"So... What happens if you choose one of us?" I say, dreading the response.

"I... I don't know. But you can't come."

"Ugh. Not again. I'm coming like it or not-"

"YOU CAN'T." He roars standing over me, looking completely insane and... lost? Then it hits me. Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective that has ever lived, doesn't know what to do. He staples his fingers onto his temples, like he's trying to hold himself together.

"There will be cameras everywhere. Moriarty wants me to go alone so-"

"You're wrong Sherrrlly! I don't mind who goes with you. All I care about is the entertainment. It gets sooo boring when you're not around." In the corner of the lift sits a tiny camera next to an even smaller speaker. I swear I can hear Sherlock's skin crawling at the sound of his voice.

"I'm coming." I say, and close my eyes as he presses a button.

**So, what you think? Pleeeeeeeease review and follow and stuff? Makes my day :D Stay tuned for the next chapter!**


	10. The second clue

**Heya! I'm reeeally sorry this chapter took so long to update :( But it's the holidays and stuff, so I've been busy... Kind of. Anyway, firstly a BIG thankyou to:**

**TwilightMortal: Thankyou :D I love that episode! (Well, I love all of them really.)**

**fcsherlockgirl: Yeah that's what I've been thinking /:( I might go back and tweak that bit if I have time. Glad you're enjoying it though :)**

**FanFicGirl10: Yep! But Sherlock will have to figure it out first...**

**willowfollower: Thankyou :D I know, poor old Sherlock :) Mwa ha ha**

**So without further ado, I give to you...**

_Molly_

The lift moves. Up or down, I don't know which. It feels like the hands on a clock face are stuttering between two digits, like time is stuck between two intervals. My head hurts. Maybe it's the cancer, but maybe not. I haven't told anyone how horrible my situation really is. Partly because I don't want them to watch my sanity slip through their grasp as the tumour increases, eating me from inside out.

Sherlock breathes quietly behind me. I swallow. I've been doing that a lot lately. Though it does nothing to calm my nerves, it constantly feels like there's an inflated balloon wedged in my throat, like I'm going to cry but I never do, and it never goes away.

I'm tired but awake.

Scared but hopeful.

And cold yet sweating all at the same time. I realise was lying about what I said in the taxi. I would rather die slowly, painfully but live a little longer than be shot on the spot. I'm a selfish person. I would rather see my family and friends suffer for a prolonged time just so I could live a little longer. All through my childhood, my father reminded me that no one is perfect. Every single human on the planet has their faults, but that never made me feel any better. I'm selfish. That is my fault.

The doors open. I open my eyes to meet the grey wall I'm facing, and listen to Sherlocks footsteps as he leaves. I'm coming. That's what I'd said; I can't turn back now. I'm going. I follow him out, holding my head high.

We find ourselves in a dark display room with cold glass cabinets displaying de-composed skulls, bones and fossils. The shiny floor reflects my sad form with my hair in a stringy lump over my shoulders and my eyes bruised with exhaustion. _Great. Not only am I likely to be killed my some physco, I also look like a witch,_ I think miserably. Sherlocks hand briefly brushes mine. I look up. He's pulling me along by my sleeve. In a normal situation, I would have squealed internally over the tiny contact, but this isn't a normal situation and terror has a vice-like grip on my throat.. Even my footsteps are silent. I wonder who he picked? As nasty as it sounds, I hope he didn't choose me...

"Finally! I was worried you weren't turning up for a second there! But, now you're here, so all is good." I know the voice doesn't belong to Moriarty. It has an aura of sophistication and seriousness buzzing about it. Not Moriarty at all. Sherlock drags me forwards. The room isn't completely dark after all. At the back slouches a man. His face is quite handsome, bright, liquid blue eyes complete with a hard, pointy jawline, but his stare is lacking any sort of life. His shark eyes are staring at a spot in front of us rather than at us, while his thin lips are curled up in a disgusting smirk that darkens his appearance further. He must work for Moriarty.

"I have to say, I'm surprised by your choice. Why did you pick him? I thought you'd pick little Molly here. After all, she's already a walking corpse." Relief hits me so hard I nearly loose my balance. He didn't pick Mary. Or me. So who did he pick...?

"Where's John?" Sherlock spits.

"Well Mr Holmes, if you do as I tell you, you can have your little pet back sooner rather than later. Which believe me, you want because he's not in the best condition right now..." He says, looking bored.

"What have you done to him?" I say in a strangled whisper.

"Don't worry. He's alive. For now..." He trails off like something in the distance captured his attention. There's a long pause of silence. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"So, I presume I have to guess what the second clue is." He drawls, mimicking the mans bored tone.

"I need you to humour me with a game of say... Truth or Dare. You will won't you?" He says, ignoring Sherlocks question.

"What a choice you've given me." Sherlock says, sarcastically. The mans smirk twists into a grin that doesn't touch his eyes.

"Anyway, which will you pick Sherlock? Truth or Dare?"

Sherlock doesn't respond.

"Does your girlfriend have anything to say on the matter?" He turns to me. I stare at the floor like I'll fall through it and out of this nightmare if I stare hard enough. I don't.

"I don't know." I murmur so only Sherlock can hear.

"Oh dear. That's a shame." He heard anyway.

"Dare." Sherlock says. I look at his face. He looks uninterested, faking an over-confidence.

"Well then Sherlock, I guess you know who this effects seeing as you picked him." His creepy grin gets uglier as he stretches his lips back from his teeth, revealing polished daggers stabbing out of his gums.

"Obviously."

"Seeing as you chose Lastrade... I dare you, to tell him that John Watson is dead."

He picked... Greg?

_Mary_

I haul my balloon feet out of bed to get some water. Stumbling down the stairs, I try to keep my footsteps quiet for Molly, but there's no sound from the living room. That's odd. Molly snores lightly most of the time. I shake it off, and go into the kitchen. Filling up a glass, I listen. There's no noise. No rustling of sheets, no breathing, no snoring. Is she even there? Carrying my water over, I go to the sofa. It's empty. Where is she?

"Molly?" I call through the house.

"Molly? You here?" There's no sound other than the dripping tap. I shiver. Where is she? Frantically I pound on the light switch, and grab my mobile on the table. Breathing deeply, I dial Molly's number.

It rings for a while. No one picks up. Uh oh. Staying calm, I try Lastrade instead. He answers.

"Are you okay?"

"Hey to you too. Do you know where Molly is?" My voice doesn't shake. Thankfully.

"No. Why?"

"She's meant to be asleep downstairs, but isn't. She could be with Sherlock?" I try.

"Well, Sherlock kind of... I don't know... He won't really talk about this whole situation with John and everything... I don't exactly know where he is either." Terror knots in my gut.

"So, you let Sherlock run of on his own?! Are you crazy?! Who knows what he's doing!" I snap.

"..." He doesn't respond. I sigh.

"Did she leave a note?" He tries.

"Yeah, because she left a note saying where she is and I can't read." I say sarcastically. He sighs.

"Tried calling her?"

"Yeah no answer."

"Shit."

"I know. Any ideas?" I ask.

"Not really. Look, give it a few hours perhaps, and if she doesn't come back, then we can worry okay?" Hours!? What is wrong with him? She could be taken like John. In which case, we don't have hours.

"Are you insane?! She might be kidnapped like John!?" I say.

"I know..." There's a pause, and some muffled voices from his end.

"Hello? You still there?" I say.

"Yeah. I'm sending ten officers out looking around for her-"

"Great. I'll start looking too." I hang up. I'm not waiting for some stupid officers to ask around for Molly. She must have left some sort of clue...

I look around. Northing seems out of place. Everything looks normal. The only sign that something's wrong is the lack of life. I frown. There must be something right? There always is? But what?_ Think like Sherlock..._ I glare at every teeny little detail in the living room, trying despairingly to link it to Molly without successes. Then I have an idea. Her coat.

If Molly was taken, it would most likely be by force, so why would the kidnapper take the time to get her coat? If her coat is here then it's more likely she's been kidnapped. Probably. Not wasting time, I run down the hallway, well, more fast waddle to the door. Please don't let her coat be there... As dodgy as my theory is, it's the only sort of clue I have as to weather Molly's okay. Flicking the light on, I rummage through the jungle of coats for the one Molly actually wears. Who needs this many coats anyway? It's not there. My head swims with relief. But that alone doesn't give me any idea where she is. My phone rings.

Unknown number.

I frown. And panic. Should I answer? Hesitantly, I press the green button.

"Hello?" I ask, half expecting Moriarty. No one's told me he's involved in this. But they don't have to. There's no way this is just a coincidence with the miss me tape.

"Mary. It's so very lovely to hear from you."

"Who's speaking?"

"Oh! You don't recognise my voice?!" Now that he mentions it, he does sound familiar...

"Well, that makes things a lot more interesting don't you think? You see Mary, this is the second clue." Huh?

"What clues?"

"Well, the clues to finding John of course! My own little trail of breadcrumbs."

"Who had the first clue?"

"Sherlock. Oh but I believe Molly's pretty determined to play along too." He drawls.

"Who the hell are you? Do you work for Moriarty?" I snap.

"Calm down my dear. I'm asking the questions. Firstly, do you know where Molly is? And if I suspect for a second that you're lying to me, I will kill little Johnny boy, and then you."

"No. I don't." My voice stays steady.

"And Sherlock?"

"I don't know about him either." I say. I feel like I want to vomit...

"Good. Then down to business.." He trails off as I grab the home phone and start punching in Sherlocks number. I need to get to him...

"I'd stop that if I were you." I freeze. No... He can... See me? Cameras? I slowly look up. Situated in the corner of the hall, barely the size of a table tennis ball, is a shiny, grey screen. Blinking at me mockingly.

"Cameras..." I trail off.

"Yes. Just a precaution. Well, you're probably wondering how this is a clue?" My head hurts. I have to talk to Lastrade, Sherlock, someone. One of them needs to handle this, they're the experts.

But it's useless... He has John. What do I do?

"It has crossed my mind." I say.

"Well, here it is:

Seventeen, a cold-blooded teen,

With secret art nobody knows.

Underneath her thick skin,

In blue blood that runs thin,

Clinging to her wherever she goes.

That's all. But remember, we're watching your every move." He threatens. The line goes dead, the beep echoing in my ears. I can't get help, that much is obvious. There are cameras in the house, who knows how many people he's got out there watching me. So what does this stupid riddle mean? Come on, think.

"A tattoo!" I gasp. Of course! There's nothing else it could be! But that doesn't help me... Unless... OF COURSE! It's me! He was referring to me. I have a secret tattoo on the small of my back, which only a few people know about. My parents wouldn't let me have one, so I'd snuck out with friends to have it done. But how is it a clue? It's a very simple design, just a black butterfly. I concentrate hard. Maybe, it's not about what the tattoo is. Perhaps it's about who did it? But if so, there's no way I'll be able to remember that. Could it be where I had it done? I remember that. There was a cheap, rusting little shed down that street from us, wearing a sign hanging from its roof pathetically advertising the tattoo parlour. But there's no way that place is still standing. Is it? I can't think of any other ways it could possibly be a clue... Sighing, I take my red coat and hail a taxi.

This should be fun.

**So, what ya think? Love it? Hate it? Let me know and stay tuned for chapter 11!**


	11. The third clue

**Hey guys! I know, updates are taking longer than they used to. Sorry /:) I keep getting distracted by these other ideas for other stories, then writing up those ideas, then later deciding those ideas were terrible. But here's the next chapter, and another BIG THANKYOU to:**

**TwilightMortal: Thankyou :) I'm pretty sure there are a LOT of grammar mistakes though.**

**willowfollower: Thankyou! There are gonna be some pretty sad chapters coming up though... :) I'm horrible**

**Guest: Thanks for reading :D Admittedly, I haven't read the originals :( but when I look up Lastrade on google, that's what comes up, so...**

_John_

My eyes flutter open. White light burns my vision. I blink hard. A silhouette moves into my vision. _Not this again..._

"Hello John. Finally awake I see." The cold slab that dug into my back a second ago has gone. In its place is a rough surface like... carpet? I flex my fingers. At least I can move again. I try talking.

"Where am I?" I slur, my mouth refusing to form words.

"Sorry Johnny? I didn't catch that? Having trouble speaking?" He taunts. I grit my teeth weakly, and try to force my hands into pathetic fists by my sides. My muscles are gooey like they've been replaced with thick liquid.

"Piss off." I say.

"Tut tut! Language John! Besides, I think you'll be interested in what I have to say." I swallow the metallic taste in my mouth, and don't reply.

"Well, I think you'll find this interesting, so I'd pay attention if I were you." I cough up blood, and sit up straighter with effort. My vision blurs and sways; purple walls spinning around me. I can make out a ripped leather sofa in the far corner and some fuzzy black swirls decorating the ceiling and walls. Moriarty is leaning against the other corner of the room, rather than hovering above me, and his guards stand against the walls, dotted around the room. I'm in a heap on the floor.

"So. You know how I said I was surprised you didn't recognise me when we first met? Or were you too busy being unconscious? Anyway. You see Johnny, you have known me for a very long time. Since you were eleven in fact." I frown. _What the hell is this nutjob on about now?_

"Of course, at that time I went by a different name, but we spent a lot of time together. You see Johnny, I'm your brother." My jaw drops open. Everything stops. I stop breathing, my heart stops beating and the world freezes in place. _My brother's dead. I know that. Harry knows that, my family knows that. He isn't alive. It's impossible..._

"No. My brothers dead." I snap.

"Aw! Is that what they told you!? Isn't that... Sad. People are soooo predictable. So do tell, how did I die?" I shiver.

"There was a house fire with my father... My brother is dead." I say in a monotone. He's dead. He's dead. Of course he is... Why would they lie? He throws his head back and roars with maniacal laughter, his right fingers tapping against his knee in a blur. I want to vomit.

"NO HE'S NOT! You're just as stupid as the rest of them. Oh! I know how I can prove to you I'm your brother! You know that ring I inherited from our uncle? I still have it! You know I always wore that ring. If there was a house fire, the ring would have burnt along with me!" Hands quaking with madness, he yanked out a metal band and shoved it in my face, crossing the room with one swift movement. Carved into the ring is MG. Martin Greenman. My uncle.

"You could have just taken it, or forged a new one-"

"FINE. I know how I can prove it to you. You remember that day we went out to the lake fishing? I fell in and nearly drowned, and you just stood there like a vegetable. Too shocked to even help. I would be dead if it hadn't been for Harry. Only one of us three could have known that-"

"You could have been watching-"

"Oh please, honey. You really think I spent my childhood stalking you? Don't flatter yourself." Vomit or blood rises in my throat, which I gulp down, my stomach twisting and churning. It's impossible... That's when my head explodes in pain, and black stars flash in my vision. Before I can speak, my head hits the floor with an agonising crack, and darkness swallows me whole.

_Mary_

I stand in front of the tattoo parlour and watch flakes of green paint drip onto the grass. Not much has changed. The same sign is still hanging off the roof, and the door is clinging desperately onto its hinges, blowing slightly ajar in the wind. A cold breeze hits me, and I pull my red coat closer. _It's now or never_ I think to myself. Inhaling, I waddle quietly towards the splintered door and nudge it open. Pressing my ear against it, I hear voices. One is Johns. I stifle a gasp.

"... I would be dead if it hadn't been for Harry. Only the three of us could have known that-" Moriarty. I shake off my disgust and listen intently.

"You could have been watching-"

Oh please, honey. You really think I spent my childhood stalking you? Don't flatter yourself." I try not to panic at the sound of Johns voice. He sounds terrible. I exhale silently, hoping for more conversation, instead a loud crack echoes through the walls. I shiver.

"Oh John! You fell asleep just as your little friend has come to join us!" I freeze.

"Come on in Mary! I know you're out there!" Gripping the edges of my coat to stop my hands shaking, I push the door open with my shoulder. The scene that greets me is horrific.

The only piece of furniture in the room is a ripped leather sofa in the far corner, and the purple walls

have intricate patterns of swirls painted on them, though most have worn away over time. Slouched in one of the corners is Moriarty in his businessmen suit as always, while his men stand guard around the walls. And in the centre of the room is John.

He's curled in a protective ball on his side unconscious, his sandy hair a tangled mess on his head, and a pool of thick blood trickles from his hand. His face is hidden by the shadows. I gulp.

"Well, isn't this a lovely surprise. Hello Mary, come for the third clue I see." He remarks, a lazy grin crawling over his features. I don't reply.

"I have to admit, it took you a lot longer than I'd expected. But then, I suppose traffic here is terrible sometimes." I glare at him.

"But you're here now, so let's get started! Did you recognise the voice on the phone? I'll be surprised if you didn't, after all, you were a secret agent once weren't you? You know, Magnussen told me all about your little adventures. Truly terrible. So many deaths. All because of you." He stabs his index finger at me. My heart sputters for a second. Magnussen was working with him? I shake it off. Moriarty probably has hundreds of powerful figures under his little finger.

"But back to the phone-call. Do you know who it was?" I blink and glance casually around the room, hoping for an escape route. There's no other way out of the shed other than the door I came in through, and a fire exit where a guard stands. I have no chance against all these people.

"Do you?" He repeats. I return my eyes back to his.

"Ohhhh! You don't! Well that makes things interesting! But, I suppose you've only seen him once in your life. Sherlock would know straight away you know?" I frown.

"Want to know who it was?" Ignoring him, I don't break eye contact, sending a cold shiver down my spine.

"DO YOU?" He screams. I flinch then nod shakily. He smirks.

"You can come in now." He calls at the fire exit door, which swings open revealing his silhouette. Standing in the doorway is a man with greasy black hair, combed back with some stray strands tickling his forehead, pale grey eyes, and a bumpy nose. My frown deepens as I try to place his face. Is that... Anderson?

"Surprise." Anderson drawls, stalking into the room, as the guard closes the door behind him.

"Anderson...?" I whisper.

"Well done." He responds sarcastically. I shift. A heavy silence falls until Moriarty giggles.

"Isn't this nice!? But, back down to business, Mary wants the third clue to get little John here back. Don't you?" I nod.

"Hm... It seems, that I've already told you." _What?_ My eyes stay on him.

"I do hate to repeat myself, it's awfully tedious, however, seeing as you were late, I'll make an exception." He rises from the chair he was sat in, and paces towards me like a cat about to pounce.

"You see Mary, John has known me for a very. Long. Time. He just didn't remember when we first met at the pool. He remembers now. Did John ever tell you he had a brother?" I blink three times. He's lying... Of course he is... There's no way he's Johns-

"Well, he did. I was his younger brother. I also 'died' when I was 15, but that's not entirely true obviously." Bile rises in my throat.

"I didn't die, I was sent away. I was sent away for being different, and do you know why?" His face is inches from mine. I can feel his revolting cold breath on my cheeks, sending shivers down my spin.

"Because difference is dangerous." He whispers. "Difference poses a threat to all the perfect little families out there, who all have perfect little children, who'll grow up to be exactly the same as every other perfect person, and I. Didn't. Fit."He spits out the last words and walks away from me.

"You've already seen the third clue Mary, you just have to open your eyes-"

"PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD AND GUNS ON THE FLOOR." A loud voice yells through the room. I turn to the door to face a herd of armed men in bulletproof vests and helmets. _What the..._

"Oh, hello. Come to join the party-" Moriarty starts before a man approaches to grab him. He misses. Moriarty's foot collides with the guys shin, and he sprints towards the fire exit meeting more men. He screams. I cover my ears.

Everything from there is a fuzzy blur. There's a loud crash as someone falls to the floor, and a parade of gunshots. I get onto my knees to cover my head, hearing my heartbeat in my ears. The noise and screaming is echoing inside my head, bouncing off the walls of my skull. I wince and force myself to concentrate on the patterns in the carpet, refusing to look up. More gunshots ring out. Something wet slips down my face through my fingers. I don't know how long I sit like this. On the floor, waiting for a welcome silence, but it feels like forever. Eventually, someone places a warm hand over my shoulder. I scream and thrash, pushing it away. He says something that I cant hear over the constant ringing in my ears. I sob loudly, then darkness takes me.

**So, I kind of rushed this chapter a bit sorry /:( I've been busy :D But please stay tuned for chapter 11, and don't forget to review!**


	12. Hospital

_John_

_Am I alive?_ It's hard to tell. My lungs are inflating without my permission, my chest aching from the effort it takes just to keep breathing. I want to move my right arm that has a dull ache slowly spreading up to my shoulder, but it's too heavy to lift. All my limbs feel like their weighed down with liquid. I want to open my mouth to make a noise, maybe a scream, possibly. But I can't. Bells? Can I hear bells? There's an annoying ringing that drowns out everything else, makes everything else distant like I'm not really here. I wish it would stop. Maybe there's a wedding nearby... Or perhaps a... Or maybe I'm in hospital?

_Molly_

"What the..." I trail off, bending over trying to catch my breath.

"... I don't know..." Sherlock manages between breaths. We stand outside an old chip shop with a flashing neon sign lighting up the pavement we stand on. That was weird. The guy just died. Right then and there. Right in front of us. How the hell that happened, I don't know. There was no gunshot, no nothing, he just collapsed. At first we thought he was unconscious, so Sherlock checked for a pulse, and the guy was 100% dead. Gone. It's Creepy. Then the gunshots had started. First they echoed from the right, something falling, breaking, and the sound of someone screaming, then they aprouched from the left aswell. We'd both escaped out of the fire exit. Thankfully, we'd gotten out of the building unharmed, but before we got further than 10 metres, the whole building burst into flames, licking at the windows and sending bricks tumbling to the ground. Both of us stared in shock, before I pulled Sherlock away, and we ran until we reached a high street. Now, here we are.

"Well, that was..." I start.

"Odd..." He finishes for me.

"Yeah..." We stand for a while trying to get our breath back, my lungs burning in the cold air.

"We should call Lastrade..." He says, whipping out his phone. I frown.

"You're telling him that John's...?

"Don't have much choice." He replies. Closing my eyes, I lean my head against the rough brick wall behind us. I sigh. Talk about the craziest night... I listen as the ringing stops and Lastrade picks up my eyes snapping open as I watch the detective. His face is its normal cold stare, but inside I can tell he's panicking. It must be hard to lie to your friends, even for the worlds greatest detective. I can hear Lastrade sigh with relief.

"Sherlock. Is Molly with you?" He asks frantically.

"Yes." My eyes widen slightly, Sherlock's voice is thick with emotion. Okay, maybe I was wrong about him lying to Lastrade...

"Thankgod. Listen-"

"John's dead." An uncomfortable silence follows. I shift. Despite it being a lie, the idea makes me want to throw up.

"What?" Lastrade doesn't sound upset, just very confused.

"He was shot-"

"What the hell are on about? John's here in Barts." I release a long breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. Sherlock's face relaxes completely.

"Okay we're heading over-" He starts

"No hang on, what were you talking about-" Sherlock hangs up. Then grins at me.

"Got you're breath back yet?"

_Mary_

I glance at Lastrade.

"They're okay right?"

"Yes. I just called Sherlock, he's with Molly, they're heading over. I'll meet them at the doors yeah?"

"Okay." I manage a weak smile at him. The corner of his mouth curls up in response before he gets up and leaves, closing the door quietly. I shut my eyes. _They're okay..._ Relief floods over me in a warm blanket. I sigh, and look around. The hospital room I'm in is spotless. The only furniture other than my bed, is a lonely sad wooden stool in the corner next to the window. I shiver, pulling the white sheets up to my chin and making shapes out of the patterned ceiling waiting for any news of John.

I can't explain the horror I felt when I saw John's face. It was nearly unrecognisable. Coated with blood, and a deep gnash across his forehead with long cuts over his cheeks. I shudder. But he's fine. He's in Barts too, perfectly stable. We're all okay. Except Molly... But she'll never be okay again... I ignore the nasty thought, pushing it to the back of my mind to deal with later. The doctors told me not to worry.

Worrying won't change anything, and it certainly won't make me recover faster. I was lucky. The only thing that's really wrong with me is the occasional cut and bruise and obviously shock. I'll be fine. The door opens. I look up.

Standing in the doorway with her hair plastered to her face in dirty clumps, her clothing hanging from her figure like it would a washing line, is Molly. I smirk at her appearance.

"My, you look fantastic." I rasp. She laughs as tears spring to her eyes, and stumbles over to half hug, half throttle me. I laugh into her shoulder. She sobs, or laughs, I don't know which. Hoping my eyes are relatively dry, I look up at Sherlock who doesn't look great either. His curls are even more tangled than usual, and around his eyes are big black lines.. He rolls his eyes at the 'sentiment', but his mouth is twitching upwards slightly. I grin, patting Molly who starts crying.

"Hey... It's okay..." I say, rubbing her back. She sniffles. Sherlock looks uncomfortable suddenly.

"Where's John?" He says to Lastrade, who had his eyes closed and was leaning against the wall, clearly having trouble staying awake.

"He's in the room downstairs, first to your right-" Before he can finish, Sherlock runs out the door, barging poor Greg out of the way. Greg shakes his head.

_Sherlock_

I stampede through the labyrinth of shiny walls and disaproving nurses until I reach a private room with a heavy fire door and the number 24 on it. I take a deep breath, and go inside.

"John?" I whisper, my eyes raking the bear, cold room before landing on him. He doesn't look too good. His nose has bandaging over it, a forest of small cuts lie over both cheeks, and a long slice over his forehead. I swallow. He's unconscious. Shutting the door behind me, I stand in the room awkwardly. _Okay... Now what do I do? _I know normal people sit in a chair until the person wakes up... I think. But really, what's the point? He's asleep. It's not like he knows I'm here.. How boring.

Maybe I should wake him up? No. Mary would kill me. I frown. Perhaps I could go and work on the Moriarty case. But we don't exactly have much to work on. All we know, is they kidnapped John and invited Mary for the third clue before Mycroft's men intervened. We managed to catch Anderson, but everyone else escaped. Including Moriarty. _Anderson..._

I grit my teeth. I've hated the man since I first laid eyes on him. Now his name makes me want to vomit. I clench my fists beside me. Sadly, he was hit around the head pretty hard, so he's unconscious too. He deserved worse. John grunts, moving his arm slightly. I watch.

"John?" I try, a bit louder. But after a second, he stops, and returns to the irregular noisy breathing pattern, except this time he snores. I smirk. Then sigh. After a while of Johns unsteady snoring, I get up and leave, closing the door quietly suddenly realising how tired I am. Yawning, I pull my coat collar up, and text Lastrade to let him know where I'm heading.

_Molly_

I stretch, looking at Mary and grin. She snores so loudly! I run a hand through my matted hair. I'm exhausted. I haven't had a wink of sleep, and contrary to what the movies make out, it's incredibly hard to fall asleep on a wooden chair, with your head and arms splayed onto the hospital mattress.

"Go to 221b and get some sleep" Lastrade says from a corner of the dim-lit room, breaking the tired silence. I frown.

"What?"

"It's not safe for you to go back to your place. Not with Moriarty around and everything. Mycroft has men surrounding the whole bloody street, so just sleep there tonight." He looks up from his phone and smiles at me.

"But Mary-"

"Will be fine. So will John."

"Sherlock won't let me." I decide, resting my head back on the mattress. I have to admit, it's tempting. It's very uncomfortable here, not to mention how badly I want a shower right now...

"He will." Lastrade promised. After a few minutes of arguing, I cave in, grabbing my coat, and yanking it on. Greg tosses me some cab money

"Thanks." I say, smiling at him, he smiles back weakly. Then I leave, making sure to shut the door quietly.

**Okay, so now authors notes are at the bottom of each chapter only, because it's probably quite annoying to have to scan through all my nonsense before you can actually get to the story! Also, I'm probably going to stop replying to reviews individually... Sorry :( I just don't have the time, and it takes ageeeeeessss to write the chapters ****_and_**** long boring authors notes. But please don't stop reviewing, and if you want me to return the favour, feel free to PM me :D Hope you enjoyed this chapter, next one should be up soon :) Oh and sorry if this chapter isn't up to the usual standard, school's starting again TOMORROW ugh, and I've got a weird case of writers block where I can't seem to think up the right words...**


	13. Aftermath

_Molly_

I raise my hand to the doorbell of Baker Street and press. A quiet ringing echoes from the flat before an old lady with blonde hair, green eyes and dressed in a horrific purple gown, steps out, a tired but friendly smile gracing her features.

"Hello dear." She says.

"Hi. Inspector Lestrade said I'm staying here tonight? Um... I'm Molly."

"Mrs Hudson." She replies.

"SHERLOCK!" She yells up the dark stairway. The only reply is a soft grunt form upstairs. I sigh. Mrs Hudson turns back to me.

"Let me show you up dear." She says, ushering me inside out of the biting cold breeze, and into the dimly lit warmth of Beaker Street. I smile warmly at her. Gesturing with her hand, she follows me upstairs to a wooden door, and knocks gently.

"What?" A muffle voice snaps from inside. Sherlock.

"Your friend Molly's here." She replies, winking at me. Uh oh... Sherlock ignores her.

"Can we come in-" The door is thrown open by a ruffled, exhausted Sherlock, with his black hair piled on his head like Medusa's snakes, and a crazed look in his cold glare. His feet are bear, and he wears silk pyjamas with a dark blue dressing gown. I stifle a smile. So he _does _sleep.

"Molly says she's staying over tonight." Mrs Hudson says, suggestively wiggling her eyebrows. I internally groan and look down at the floor, hoping it will suck me up. This is so embarrassing.

"Yes." He replies, irritated. His voice is slightly husky like it hasn't been used in a while, or maybe overused. I feel Mrs Hudson elbow my ribs playfully. I try not to scream in humiliation. Sherlock lets out a short, annoyed sigh. I look up.

"Please, come in." He says, faking kindness, with this horrible fake smile on his face. I shift uncomfortably, and walk in, hearing him slam the door behind us. I look around.

The place is warm, home-like, but very, very messy. Over the fireplace on the mantelpiece is a skull next to piles of scrunched up papers and a knife randomly sticking out of the wood. On what I guess is a coffee table, is a mug of something green, surrounded by millions of books, papers and a laptop with a scratch down one side, and the kitchen looks more like a science lab. I smile.

"Make yourself at home." Sherlock mutters, before stalking over to his room, and banging the door shut. Trying not to feel offended, I grab a blanket off a chair, and drift into a welcome sleep.

**Okay, so literally NOTHING happened in that chapter I know :( But I've started school again, and I have SEVERE writers block for this story. UGH. So, this chapter will probably be updated later when I have the time. Sorry guys /:( I know this is the lamest update EVER. Also, pleeeeeeeeease PM me if you have any ideas for this story, or you know how to cure writers block :) Thanks. (Oh, and just to be awkward, this is Mollys first visit to Beaker street, which I know is incorrect, but I'd only realised that halfway through the chapter so...) Oh and the guest who reviewed my story was right, I'm just insane because I've been spelling Lestrade wrong all this time! Sorry guys. And there's a chance of Sherlolly in the future ;)**


	14. Authors Note Sorry :(

**Hey guys :) Sorry, but this is another authors note :( I've decided to put this story on hold for a while, because I seriously can't think of ANYTHING to write. I think I have the story line planned out, but the words just don't want to come out of my fingers... Okay, that's weird. However, I have a few one-shot ideas buzzing around in my head, so I might write some other stuff for a while before coming back to this. In other words, I'm taking a break :) **

**Reeeeally sorry to those of you who were looking forward to the next update, but it might not be for a while /:( Anyway, please don't give up on me :) and I love every one of you (not in a creepy way) who has bothered to read my measly story. Seriously, you guys are AMAZING! So thankyou, and feel free to PM me if you have any other ideas. I certainly don't :D**


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